Dull Tool
by carboneternal
Summary: John had imagined that being with Sherlock would be a lot of things. Amazing, terrifying, wonderful, frustrating. He had not, however, imagined what not being with Sherlock would be like. That thought was much worse. A/U, set after "A Study In Pink" and "The Blind Banker" but before "The Great Game"
1. To Be Sure Certain

It was a beautiful summer, as far as London went. So many days without rain, when the sun seemed to cling to the fabric of the sky for weeks without setting. Perfect days. It was like a different city altogether. People were smiling to each other as they crossed the street, taxi cabs seemed less inclined to plow into anything that crossed their paths, and the crime rate seemed to have hit a stand still.

A single gunshot vibrated through the walls.

John Watson could not wait for the world to snap out of it.

He lurched out of his comfortable bed, giving up on the idea of a quiet day spent doing nothing. Instead John forced his tired limbs to make their way to the tiny closet, pulling out a t-shirt. Even he couldn't be bothered with a jumper today. Maybe the heat was actually becoming too much.

The scene in the living room is, unfortunately, not an unfamiliar one. Sherlock was the personification of a bull in a china shop, a cornered dog, a two year old whose missed both snack and nap time. Wound too tightly. A bullet looking to ricochet off of anything.

"Did you want tea then?," John asks the mad man who is pacing as if the floor of the flat had done something to personally offend him. There is answer and John doesn't truly wait for one. When in a mood like this the only words Sherlock Holmes seems capable of hearing were new, interesting and case.

The actions of making the tea soothed John any way, regardless of whether the brew ever met lips. It was his long standing belief that all the terrible people in the world were simply not drinking enough of the stuff. It was impossible to stay mad after a good cuppa, regardless of what Sherlock or even Mycroft might think of his defense strategy.

"Miss. Hudson is going to start nagging you again if you don't stop shooting things and get eating something instead. Might even be interesting you know, an experiment on how the human body responds to the regular consumption of nutrients. Imagine all the scientific revelations to be had," John says with what he decided was a dignified smirk at the sound of Sherlockian type words used against the genius himself. This did nothing to lessen the scathing glare he received in return, but then little else would have either.

"John don't be so deliberately obtuse, you wound me," Sherlock tells him petulantly as he reached up to grab the hot tea cup from John's grasp. "You know all the good data's been discovered and taken already. All that's left of nutrition is boring," Sherlock adds with a sniff as he takes a sip of the sickeningly sweet tea, saying the word boring the same way normal people might have said nuclear meltdown.

"Oh I don't know, can you really trust other's research?," John asks innocently from his armchair, settling in with his paper and the knowledge that a distracted Sherlock was the best anyone could hope for today.

"I will not do any research on the matter just to correct the numerous mistakes I'm sure exist. People are idiots John, somehow we all must soldier on despite this," Sherlock says solemnly, as if he truly did live under the burden of the world's ineptitude. John imagines this wasn't far off from how the detective viewed things.

"Have you called Lestrade? Any new cases?," John says with a sigh, already knowing that Sherlock would not be sitting with him if anything of even mild interest had popped up.

"Nothing, nothing, nothing," Sherlock tells him, the repetition being another bad sign as it was something the detective never did for the sake of not being tedious. "Not one serial killer, not one triple homicide or armed robbery, not even a nice little identity theft. It's hateful!," Sherlock snaps, throwing his half empty tea cup at the already brutalized wall.

"That's enough!," John bellows back, having already jumped out of his chair to find the broom to collect the tiny shards of china before Sherlock could manage to think of a more creative use for them.

"Why can't it just get a little bloody, John? That's all I want, just a little. A teeny tiny bit of blood, no one would even miss it," Sherlock points out, looking at John with the wild eyes the doctor knew were never up to any good. "Maybe a bit of grey matter too." Sherlock amended, though he has the decency to look guilty for all of 1/45 of a second when even the detective could hear the '_bit not good'_ which John was about to send his way. With a huff, Sherlock whipped his blue housecoat tight around his body again as he rolled to face the back of the couch.

"A bit of grey matter would be like Christmas," he mutters darkly, ignoring John's long suffering sigh.

"Yes well, nothing I can do to make that come any sooner. Anything short of committing a major crime though, let me know if I can help you stop being such an annoying git," John says absentmindedly as he stoops with the dustpan to pick up all that remained of a once pretty cup.

The quick glance he gives over to the detective shows him that he had pulled the man's attention away from destroying briefly as the intense eyes followed John's movements over to the bin despite having to crane one pale neck in order to do so. John quickly makes a mental note to not notice his flatmates neck again for at least the next twenty four hours. It was unfair that a man like Sherlock with all his sharp angles and pale skin and unruly hair would be so oblivious to his own beauty. It was unfair that he ignored the way everyone tended to stare at him when he entered a room. It was unfair that he did not know the effort John had to put into suppressing the urge to lock Sherlock away from all those eyes, to keep him somewhere that only John could ever see. Though knowing the detective, if he ever found out that John harboured urges such as that, he'd likely think of it as a point of pride.

Being lost in his own thoughts, John hadn't automatically noticed the swing that was Sherlock getting off of the couch using his own version of grace. John looked up only when he noticed the sound of feet softly padding across the floor towards him. Looking up, he found that the powerful gaze of those pale otherworldly eyes had not yet moved off of him as the detective looked down through a mop of exceptionally crazed curls.

"Do you mean anything John? Really? Because your body language and tone already says you do, but I'd like to be sure. Certain," Sherlock says, correcting himself after a moments pause but adding nothing else before John could answer.

"Of course Sherlock, what did you have in mind?," John readily asks as he stood, brushing the fine bits of dust which had clung there from his trousers. He tries to mentally brace himself for whatever insane experiment Sherlock would deem absolutely essential, which one it would be that simply could not wait another day without being completed. The detective was nothing if not dramatic. John figured it was a long lasting hint to the young boy who had once dreamed of a life at sea full of peg legs.

"I might be asking too much of you," Sherlock tells him, though his words did not sound scared and he in fact took another step closer to John.

" And that would be different from every other day, how?," John asks, a small smile tempting his lips but the idea of what it was that was so horrible as to cause Sherlock to hesitate put a stop to that motion.

"Do I do that a lot? Push too far, overstep the line?," the detective asks him, giant eyes roaming over John's body. "I don't mean to do it. I just can't see it," Sherlock adds quietly, shaking his head as if there actually was an invisible line his eyes had somehow tricked him into missing. As if that could ever happen.

"I think that's just about all you do, Sherlock. I think it might even be what sustains you, since it's obviously not food," John says, a good natured smile on his face as Sherlock seemed to consider his words carefully for two real complete minutes. Then the detective moved closer, to the point that John is certain he can feel the madness oozing out of Sherlock like static electricity. "What are you doing?," John asks once he'd realized that he couldn't manage to get his legs to listen to his mind's pleas to escape, his words finally picking up the quiet tone Sherlock's had had.

"I'm afraid I must ask too much of you again, John Watson. If it upsets you, feel free to remember I'm mad later," Sherlock tells him with what John knew to be a smile but was really only the tugging of the corners of the detective's mouth upwards.

And then the mad, crazy, insane, brilliant, amazing, fantastic man kissed him. Deeply, forcing John's mind to quickly store the memory of soft full lips and warm breath that still held the scent of the sticky sweet tea before an eager tongue begged for entrance. The taste of Sherlock's mouth was even more overwhelming; John's mind wasn't able to comprehend all the sensations associated with it even as his body had moaned for more while leaning in to press closer to Sherlock.

It seemed that the only thought John could managed to hold onto as this was happening was that he was still going to bloody well kill the detective for smashing that cup. Prat.


	2. Freckles and Staying

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

This had different from what he'd imagined.

It had been….good. Fascinating.

Definitely better than putting bullets in the wall.

Interesting.

Sherlock had kept his eyes open, bright and brilliant as they watched John for the fifty three seconds it took the doctor to come to his senses before he pushed Sherlock away.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"

Dull.

"Obvious John, really,"

"I must have missed the 'my flatmates gone mental' memo," John yelled at him, and the physical force of the words almost made Sherlock step back but he decided that if John could do this then so could he. Stand calm and still. A perfect soldier.

"I'm kissing you," he said, barely able to keep the eye roll to himself but being close enough to start cataloguing the freckles under John's left eye helped.

"Yes, thanks, I got that. I'm asking why, Sherlock. Why, today of all days, you decide you'd like to start kissing me like it's no big deal. Because I swear, if this is for some experiment or because you ran out of bullets I am going to throttle you into next week," John said vehemently, a finger coming up to accuse very close to Sherlock's face.

Best to say something non-artillery related then.

"I did it because I wanted to," Sherlock told him firmly.

"Right, brilliant then. We'll just do whatever it is Sherlock fuckin' Holmes wants and everything should be fine."

How did a man with 12 freckles along the edge of his zygomatic bone not understand this?

"You should be ordinary and boring. You probably will be. Eventually. Someday." Sherlock explained calmly, ignoring the desire to figure out the most accurate way of estimating the number of fine blonde hairs on John's head.

Later perhaps

"So what? You kissed me because I'm eventually going to be the one causing mental breakdowns around here?,"

"Making light of a situation is a pathetic defense mechanism John."

"Piss off," John snapped at him, real anger finally appearing instead of the frustrated confusion. Sherlock took a step back.

"If you're truly this dense, perhaps I take it back," he snarled viciously without meaning to, turning away from John to find the familiar path worn into the rugs from his pacing.

"You don't get to just take something like that back!," John yelled again, though Sherlock saw that the doctor was trying to compose himself. "People don't work like that Sherlock," he said more calmly, "I just don't understand. I'm not doing it on purpose," John finished quietly, forcing Sherlock's brilliant brain to focus fully on the words in order to hear them.

"Could you try and explain it, just a bit more?," John asked him cautiously.

Sherlock was going to do serious research into the links between freckles and intelligence.

"Fine, fine. I will try. If you continue to be so irritatingly incompetent after this, I will be forced to choose the skull over you," Sherlock muttered darkly, gazing intently on the spot that the tension in John's body should have been pooling on the floor.

"S'fair enough. I always thought you two would make a lovely couple any way, must be a cheekbone thing," John told him with an attempt at a smile.

"Defense mechanism, John."

"Stalling for time, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled, choosing to not compliment the good doctor on his inconvenient observations that time. His mind wasn't sure which combination of syllables would convince John that he was serious. Far too many dark, twisting paths to go down that he knew John wouldn't like.

_I would happily spend a week counting how many times you breathed, then figure out absolutely how long it is you could go without doing so. Just so I know how long I have._

No.

_I think we should tell Miss. Hudson to stop dusting in here, she isn't our housekeeper after all. Then I could collect all the dust and see if I could sort out the bits of you that you hadn't noticed were missing. Skin cells, eye lashes, rheum from your eyes because other people might forget those bits but I won't because I know. I could keep it for you, so that none of you ever gets lost again forever. _

No

_If you were dying, really dying. Dying so much that I couldn't stop it and even Lestrade wasn't try to convince me that you were fine, I'd do it first. I'd take your gun and do it first. I'd tell you that it was so you had nothing to be scared of; you were just coming back to me- so you see no one could hurt you if you wanted to sleep because you were so tired. I'd tell you that and I'd do it first. I would be lying to you, with those last words. I'm too cowardly to go second."_

No

A bit not good, he'd thought fondly

Ah.

"You make tea. Constantly. I don't ask but you make it any way. You know when I want tea even when I tell you that I absolutely do not so help me John Watson. You started labelling my experiments in the fridge even though you said that if you found one more set of kidneys in there you were going to have me committed. You didn't have me committed. You don't get mad when I use all seven jars of jam to see how it splatters even though you don't eat your toast without it. You won't get mad about that teacup, you'll forget that you meant to be mad and I won't even point out how forgetful you are. You let me shoot holes in the wall and then ask if there's anything you can do. And you mean it. Anything." Sherlock told him, gaining speed and confidence as he went, each of his points causing John's mouth to hang a little more open.

Sherlock found he didn't mind.

"You, John Watson, should be ordinary and boring. You aren't just yet, but I find I fear you might be one day." He confessed, taking the few necessary steps over to the doctor and lazily rested hands on both of John's hip bones. Traced light lines as his mind brought up all the knowledge of body temperature and weight distribution it had.

"I did it anyway," Sherlock murmured finally, great pale eyes locking on John's in hopes that he understood. Understood that he may be boring on day, but that the detective thought it might be interesting to be there any way if only to find out for himself.

"Christ Sherlock-" John's hands were suddenly gripping tightly to the front of Sherlock's already straining button up shirt, as the doctor finally (_finally_) kissed him. Pulling Sherlock down and forcing the argument about when it is appropriate to wrinkle his shirts (_ the answer is never) out of his head. _

Kissing John was easy. It reminded Sherlock of the feeling he got when he solved a cold case older than he was. Reminded him of jumping across rooftops to catch the murderer waving a machete in his face. Thrilling. Letting his tongue roll against John's felt dangerous and it sent a wave of manic glee through Sherlock. He slipped his fingers quickly under the relatively light material of John's t-shirt, instantly pleased that there was no painfully hideous jumper getting in the way. _Clavicle, costal cartilage, true ribs. _

All of John was delightfully warm, as if the tan skin leaked the desert sun that had shone on it for so long. Sherlock rucked John's shirt as high as he possibly could before breaking the kiss to pull it all the way over the doctor's head.

"Besides, you aren't nearly enough for a proper experiment. " Sherlock told him as he stole another quick kiss like the thief that he was. "Maybe a case study though, some potential there. Provided you supply enough…information," he added with wicked grin, digging his nails into the rough skin beneath their tips as he soaked up the tiny gasp that this brought out of the back of John's throat.

"Bed," was all John said firmly once his face had lost that adorable fish out of water look. It was a look that Sherlock thought he might cherish for the rest of his life.

"I've been reliably informed that it isn't proper to go to bed in the middle of the day," Sherlock said while losing none of the mischievousness from his voice. "We could do anything we wanted right here," he added, eyes suddenly sparkling at the idea.

"I'd be happy to do whatever it is you like right here," Sherlock told him while slowly dragging long fingers to the waist of John's trousers, watching the way the other man's eyes fluttered shut briefly before the firm resolve came back.

"We are not doing anything else in a room Mycroft Holmes has probably bugged,"

Scowling at the mention of his brother at such a time, Sherlock was forced to agree as he let John out of his grip.

"Fine, my room,"

Sherlock moved quickly, bypassing the kitchen and any thought of which experiments were likely to suffer from neglect today as he pushed open the door to his bedroom with a loud bang. He'd trust in the good doctor to follow behind him, as ever, and Sherlock was not disappointed to hear a much quieter click of the door closing behind him almost instantly. Turning to face John again, his hands flew back to where they had been a few moments before. Making quick work of the button and zip on John's trousers before pulling them and his pants quickly down as he swatted at a leg to get John to step out of them. Wonderful. He took half a step back and looked appraisingly over John's body. Fought back the irrational urge to be cross with John for hiding so much from him under all those ugly clothes. Sherlock's body visibly shook with the desire to map out every scar, every constellation that was John Watson.

"Do I get to do you now?," asked in a sheepish voice was the only thing that pulled Sherlock's half-lidded gaze back up to John's face.

Well Sherlock couldn't blame John for not being equally interested in just John.

"If you wish, John," he drawled – dragging out John's name just to see the ex-army doctor have to put conscious thought into not letting his knees buckle.

Sherlock made no effort to close the small gap of space he'd accidentally put between them though. That was a step for John to make all on his own. It was one that the good doctor hesitated on making for only a moment. Only a moment before Sherlock silently preened for correctly deducing that this sense of… attraction mixed with a healthy dose of possessiveness was not entirely one sided. John did not need to be convinced.

"Stop looking for pleased," John told him sternly, though the tone did not find it's way into the doctor's eyes as he put a tentative hand on Sherlock's shoulder where the pale blue silk dressing gown hung already slipping half off. A second hand mirrored the first's movements and Sherlock didn't so much as blink as the expensive fabric fell to the floor. Warm sun leaking fingers were quick to tug on the hem of his grey v-neck tshirt, also deceivingly expensive and treated with the same lack of care as Sherlock's impatience got the best of him. He whipped the thin shirt off with a flourish, tossing the thing to some forsaken corner of his room.

_He mustn't realize he's giving away all that light_ Sherlock thought as pale blue-grey eyes watched the rough fingers move with growing confidence (and less like they were going to break something precious)over his pale skin. Sherlock knew he was attractive in an abstract sense. In a way that could be used to gather information, a way to be used against other people if and when it was convenient. He thought little of it. But the hot flush that crept up his chest was… unexpected.

He suddenly longed for one of his expensive suits as John's right hand rested over Sherlock's pounding heartbeat. He longed for the armour he wore during cases, to offer some protection even if it was an illusion. It was one of the few feelings that Sherlock could control, that he knew was irrational. What he very much wanted was for John to explore any skin necessary. It was just sentiment that made his chest feel vulnerable in a situation like this. The detective had no use for such things.

John had obviously, obviously, started with his shirt because it seemed safer. Sherlock understood that but he still shuffled a little closer to John to press the soft cotton of his pyjamas against bare thighs urging the doctor on. A sharp intake of breath was followed with John tugging apart the knot of the drawstring and pushing the fabric off of Sherlock's warming skin.

Sherlock had always imagined that being looked at naked the way John was doing right now was what all those other must have felt was happening when his brilliant deductions were forced upon them. Exposed, put on display to the world. Sherlock enjoyed the thrill. Why so many people told him to piss off was a mystery.

"God- there isn't an inch of you that isn't perfect is there?," John asked in a disbelieving voice.

Sherlock smirked, ready to supply the _Don't be absurd John. Even you must have noticed that chemical burn on my right bicep not to mention the healed over marks on the inside of my left arm. Hardly perfect._ but John just shook his head minutely before reaching up for Sherlock's mouth again. Playing tongues together, tasting with a heat that hadn't been present in the sitting room.

Sherlock was quick to recognize it as dangerous _want_

Gripping the nape of John's neck firmly, he trailed his free hand down the tan chest covered in fine gold hair to roughly tease a nipple into a hard nub. Greedily swallowing the breathy gasp that this elicited from John. Sherlock broke the kiss with a grin, lowering himself to suck gently on the nipple before running a wet tongue over to work and switching to the other side.

"Holy fuck – that shou…shouldn't be soooo," John stuttered out, the half-finished thoughts amusing Sherlock so much that he didn't even demand John find the right words to complete them for the sake of clarity. Releasing the second nipple and bending to trail sloppy kisses down the desert sand skin, Sherlock felt he understood perfectly even with the missing pieces.

Sherlock stopped his descent down John's torso, and the subsequent cataloguing of the salty sweet taste of skin, when he'd reached John's navel. Running lightly calloused violin playing hands firm up the inside of less tanned than everything else thighs, before dropping fully to his knees.

"Jesus Christ, what are you doing?," was the shakey response to this, John's eyes looking down to meet Sherlock's gaze. Both sets of pupils were blown wide with desire and Sherlock wondered if he might damage the muscles bringing a devilish smile to his face from pure overuse after so long.

"That's a good guess but still just Sherlock for now," he said as his long fingers gripped firmly onto John's cock, giving an experimental tug. John shuddered above him and Sherlock moved his free hand to hold tightly on to the doctor's hip to offer a bit of support.

"Still a good guess though, you're definitely getting warmer," he added without looking away from the slightly awed expression on John's face. Without wasting another second Sherlock brought his mouth to John's cock, quickly licking the bit of precum that was there before easing John into his mouth.

Setting a slow pace at first as his tongue moved up and down the length before flicking across the tip. Sherlock dug his nails into hipbones to keep John where he wanted him as the doctor's moans began to shake through. He felt John's fingers grip onto his curls as they trembled with the desire to keep Sherlock's mouth just _there_ and Sherlock was quick to speed up the movements of his head. Taking John in deeper, he hummed as he worked- creating his own mixture of hollowed suction and strokes of the tongue. Without saying a word Sherlock released one of John's hips and he reached for his own aching cock, tugging on his own length till he moaned around John's.

"Jes- Sherlock I'm going to..," only just managed to be said over him.

Sherlock hummed again in acknowledgement but did nothing to stop what he was doing. In fact, he began to draw more rapid strokes with both his tongue and the hand on his own cock, feeling the pressure building in himself mirrored in John.

When John finally came, it was with a shudder that seemed to wrack through every one of the nerve endings in the doctor's body in a hot flash. Sherlock swallowed happily, claiming every bit of John's that was his before releasing the other man. With a few more strokes and the feeling of John's fingers running through his hair, Sherlock followed soon after with his own long low moan.

His whole world went white for a few blissful seconds. All the _bit not good_ parts of his brain wiped away and all the noise gave way to a peaceful quiet. Like the world had finally figured out how to hide from his deductive powers. The feeling never lasted though. Too soon all of his senses came flooding back to him but at least he got to hold onto the easy calm that came after that.

"Bed," he commanded while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, rising to gently push John towards and back onto the unsurprisingly impressive silk sheets. Without a word, he quickly went to the bathroom, grabbing a flannel to wipe himself relatively clean before heading back into the bedroom.

Where he pointedly ignored how awkward John Watson was making himself appear sitting there with all the posture of an ex-soldier.

Instead, he lay down on the other side of bed with a sigh, pulling the covers back to curl up under them.

Watching the other man shift slightly from side to side was amusing but all that thinking radiating over to him would keep Sherlock up all night.

"Stay," he said softly, keeping his gaze on John through mussed curls as the doctor finally stopped staring at his feet to turn in Sherlock's direction.

"No- it's fine I don't have to, I'll just let you sl-," "Stay," Sherlock repeated firmly, not at all put off by the sigh he got in response.

"I've nightmares, Sherlock, and I don't want to hurt you. Not to mention you don't sleep enough as it is and I'm sure I'll put you off with all this," John told him, pointing to his own skull for the full effect.

"I'm not scared of sleeping with you John."

"That's not really the point Sher-."

"Then it must be me. You're scared of sleeping with me, isn't that correct?"

"I just don't want to be here in the morning when you realize what a massive miscalculation you've made and that this is too big a risk," John confessed finally, averting his gaze again.

"I make no guarantees about the future John, you know as well as I do that the way we live doesn't allow for those kinds of promises. However I think I can say with a reasonable amount of certainty that, despite your claims that I ever make miscalculations, my feelings in regards to you will remain unchanged," Sherlock told him, trying to keep the lazy sound of sleep out of his deep voice but starting to fail miserably about half way through his explanation.

Peeking one eye open, he found John eyeing him warily before pulling the corner of the covers on his side up and lying stiffly underneath them. Moving onto his side only to face Sherlock fully.

"I'd like for you to stay. I appreciate your concern and feel free to go, but I still wish for you to stay," he whispered now, losing focus on all things that weren't the good doctor's face.

"You're scared. Do it any way," he finished with a grin, using the same words that had started all this once again to sooth John now.

Ah. Sentiment.


	3. I Just Wanted You To Speak Quickly

**John's P.O.V**

John hated mornings when he could feel, in every bone in his body, that his subconscious was waking him at a much too early hour. Even his elbows were telling him that nothing good could come from prying apart his eyelids, but John did it anyway. Day light had only just started to claw its way through the window, a still dim greyish light that illuminated a room that was most decidedly not John's. From the periodic table of elements poster on the wall to the meticulously organized closet full of more suits than he'd known one person could even own.

Perhaps that was when the panic set in.

The silk sheets were definitely not his- too impractical, too expensive. The pillow was certainly not his – too soft, too fluffy from the down feathers John suspected it was filled with. The bed was without any trace of doubt not his – too large, too full of mad scientist.

No, perhaps this was when the panic set in.

He turned his head only a fraction, careful to keep from moving too much to avoid waking Sherlock up beside him. The great, apparently green today, eyes that were pointedly staring at him were quick to let him know how stupid that idea had been. Even if it were barely past dawn, John had slept for the better part of the past day to that point where it might have been a bit indecent of him. For Sherlock to have done the same thing it would have meant the detective was trying to get his full years' worth of sleep in one go. In reality, Sherlock didn't even have the decency to blink.

Panic, this had to be it now.

John thought that the other man must have slept for at least a little while, judging by his appearance. There were several different parts to the man that was Sherlock Holmes. The public image- the one that was all crisp suits to match the unforgiving angles of his posture and the smoothness of expression on his face. Then there was in-between-cases Sherlock. The one who wore loose tee shirts made for a body twice his size with soft pants and a ridiculous dressing gown that would be waved about like a cape. The Sherlock in front of him now looked like post-case Sherlock, the one who finally gave into that pesky urge to sleep that his body couldn't seem to shake despite his best efforts. The curls on the detective's head went in every direction as if they were each trying to follow one of the many ideas popping into the skull they were attached to. The bright eyes were less red-rimmed than they had been the previous day having finally been allowed to close for more than a millisecond. All sure signs that Sherlock had cracked the case and another criminal had been apprehended. Except there hadn't been a case. There had only been John. Plain, old, nothing-ever-happens-to-me John.

He'd slept with Sherlock Holmes.

Ah. He hadn't known what panic felt like. That explains it.

_Christ_

"You're still here then," John whispered, though he wasn't sure why, finally meeting Sherlock's gaze with his own wide-eyed one.

"A perfectly sound deduction."

John was going to punch that smirk off the detective's face. At least that feeling was familiar.

"And while I'm thrilled to be reassured that stupidity is not in fact contagious, do try not to be so obvious John," Sherlock told him the oddly fond condescending tone that John had come to realize was only used in his presence.

"Let's hold out hope that being an arrogant git isn't either," John said, hitting Sherlock's arm lightly while his brain took that moment to remember the even more _painfully_ obvious lack of clothes between them. John then had to actively not think about it. Had to ignore the fresh memories of smooth alabaster skin, sharp hip bones that he'd wondered the bruising capabilities of, plush lips whose talents were not left to the imagination.

Sherlock, on his part, looked as if John had just told him that he was simultaneously worthy of being carved into Greek statues and infinitely more clever than Mycroft in the same breath.

John sighed loudly. A sigh of the long suffering. A John Watson sigh. He ought to patent it if the rest of the world had that funny idea that they were worthy of a sigh such as this.

"Alright, you've got questions," Sherlock replied after scowling briefly at the John Watson sigh, pulling himself up against his headboard.

"A few. Mostly along the lines of 'what the hell are we doing?," John grumbled, trying to sound only half as exasperated as he felt.

"I would have thought that Three Continents Watson could have figured that one out on his own,"

To hell with Sherlock Holmes and that smirk.

"You know as well as I do, better even probably, that old army nicknames which I don't even want to know how you figured out don't make any… relationship I have last more than a few dates," he told the detective in what he decided was definitely a suitably patient tone, choosing to ignore the word he had hesitated over even when Sherlock's eyebrows quirked up at it.

"You've conveniently forgotten enough women's names to know that. So I repeat, what the hell are we doing Sherlock?," no longer sounding half of anything. This was John Watson at the end of his rope.

"Is that what you'd like John?." The too –seeing green orbs asked him, looking up from a curtain of thick lashes.

"Is what what I'd like?"

"Don't be obtuse John, do you wish for me to be one of those names you can't remember either?"

"What! Of course I d-,"

"Should I make myself busy so you can gather your things and get out, promise to call won't you?,"

"Sherlock, don't be ri-,"

"Another conquest of the great Three Continents Watson, a brilliant story to tell all those army friends on pub night. Bet they won't ever believe it."

"That is not what I think and you know it. How can you say such horrible things, always so horrible. I'd never, I can't believe you'd think that," John snapped with a huff, moving to pull as far away as the ridiculously large bed would allow but was stopped when a hand belonging to the world's only consulting detective latched itself onto his hip.

"Of course I don't think that John, last night wouldn't have happened if I did. I just wanted you to speak quickly," Sherlock told him with a lopsided grin, letting go of John as he gracefully leapt from the bed to pull on that ridiculous blue dressing gown(_not a bathrobe John_) and the soft cotton pants.

"No need for that tedious conversation where I have no doubt that you would have been as eloquent as any Shakespearean play in trying to explain us, though you would have ultimately failed. It's simple John, really, even for you. You're an ex-army doctor, a crack shot, and the blogger I'd be lost without. You're my John. That's enough to be going on with – don't you think?"

John had just enough time to gap stupidly like a fish out of water before Sherlock gave him that arrogant wink as he bounded out of the room.

"Sherlock Holmes – you are the greatest sodding prat I've ever met," he yelled back once words sounded like words again in his head, and John swore he heard a deep chuckle before the sounds of violin strings being played. With a sigh, he followed Sherlock's example of getting dressed quickly before heading into the sitting room. He was tempted to wear a jumper, regardless of the heat. See how Sherlock likes that.

"You're eating breakfast – no arguing since I know for a fact you didn't eat anything yesterday," John said to the lean expanse of thinly veiled spine staring back at him from the window frame. He took the silence as a _Yes John, please whip something up before I keel over from malnutrition and you're forced to have another long talk with a social worker about my eating habits_. No problem Sherlock, happy to help.

Scowling to himself, John set about making hardboiled eggs regardless of the lack of any wave of gratitude coming his way. It figures that these were the kind of things that weren't likely to change at 221B Baker Street. At least watching the water boil was a little more peaceful from the unusually cheery notes being played under Sherlock's finger tips.

"Come. Sit. Eat.," the doctor told the detective once John had been certain the single egg he wanted to shove down Sherlock's throat was cooked exactly the same way it had been the last time he'd managed to get the other man to eat one. Still, John had to forcibly move the tall body away from the window and onto a chair in the kitchen, carefully taking the violin to put it in Sherlock's favourite chair despite the glare this earned him.

"I don't like hardboiled eggs," Sherlock eventually sniffed, looking down his nose at the offending morsel of food as if it had jumped up on the table and started yelling about how thick the detective was.

"You did last week," he informed the detective with a sigh. A John Watson sigh. He really would be rich if he started charging people for them. He honestly expects there are some people who just assume that's the way he breathes all the time. Lungs constantly pulling in more oxygen in the hopes his brain will be better able to handle the hurricane that was Sherlock Holmes.

"That was last week. I obviously deleted how disgusting they were. I happen to remember now," John is informed by the detective who also crossed his arms tightly around his dressing grown and half exposed chest while saying it, looking every bit six years old. Sadly, not for the first time.

"You've haven't even tried it. So, even if you did delete it, you probably still like them and don't know it you great annoying git."

"I'm certain I don't John, how could anyone eat something so fowl smelling. Besides, I'm not even hungry"

"That's a shame, really truly is. I seem to remember Mrs. Hudson saying something about making fresh scones over the weekend but I'll have to let her know you aren't interested if she brings any up later," John says airily, returning his focus to his own breakfast while fighting off the urging to call his mother and apologize for ever doubting her methods.

"Mrs. Hudson made scones?," Sherlock questioned him, perking up only the slightest bit at the mention of Mrs. Hudson and baking. Only half a moment later visibly scolding himself internally for showing his hand so quickly when he realized the smile on John's face must have meant the good doctor had noticed. John did of course. Despite Sherlock's furiously argued stance that he did not require something as plebeian as food to maintain his transport, John knew that when the detective allowed himself there was a sweet tooth there. Even John had noticed the rate at which they went through custard crèmes and those poncy chocolate biscuits. He'd even been there to witness the first time the detective had had candy floss after a case outside a fairground. John had smiled the whole way home watching a sugar filled Sherlock, it had even made the rant about how blue raspberry may be the most ludicrous flavour ever invented by mankind as even Anderson knew raspberries weren't blue tolerable.

John was certainly not surprised when Sherlock began breaking his egg apart into bite sized pieces. The detective knew a checkmate when he saw one.

It was simply a combination of bad timing and piss poor luck that Sherlock's mobile phone went off after he'd only eaten three of what John imagined were the smallest excuses for bites a grown man could claim. Sherlock had the damn thing opened and pressed to his ear before John could even begin to protest that once again breakfast was being ignored as though it wasn't the most important meal of the day.

"Yes, what is it?...Lestrade I shouldn't have to tell you that that is not _my_ division, surely you know this…yes that's not unusual in cases like this, again obvious, did you call simply to try my patience?...Oh….alright, okay we'll arrive in about an hour, maybe a bit longer. Whose on forensics?...Perhaps my first deduction for the purpose behind this conversation was right then," Sherlock seethes into the phone before ending the call, having clearly grown more irritated by whatever the D.I on the other end was saying with each word. Though the detective did seem to be sticking to his word, as far as John could tell as he watched Sherlock head for the bathroom to shower.

"What was that? Is there a case?," he called down the hall, once again ignoring that he had once again been ignored when it came to the details of where on earth it was Sherlock thought they were going.

"A case, John. No puzzle in it though," Sherlock tell him, having paused at the door of the bathroom with the corners of his mouth turned downwards.

"Why are we going to a case if it's not _exceptional_ enough for Sherlock Holmes?," John questioned, trying not to sound too annoyed by this idea lest Sherlock begin to think that John had started to consider the less interesting cases beneath him as well. He hadn't, he was just very put off by the idea of missing a meal when it wasn't absolutely necessary.

"Lestrade seems to think it might be worth taking a closer look at. Suicide. Shot himself in the head, right angles and everything apparently but Lestrade seems to think the note is a bit off. I'm not sure he's much of an expert on suicide notes but best to go just to be sure."

John chose not to point out the _Might be interesting_ floating through the air, or any of the thoughts about how his feelings on Sherlock's boredom might have changed since the day before.

"You might as well finish your food though, no rush. I do hate to listen to your digestive system argue with me all day," the detective said with what might have been a smirk if the man wasn't so concentrated on looking offended by the idea of being called out for something so dull (despite having nothing else on)before finally shutting the door to the bathroom.

John decided to skip the lecture about how a grumbling stomach ought to be answered, not chastised. It hardly seemed worth it when he knew Sherlock wouldn't listen. Besides, some toast might go nicely with those eggs after all.

* * *

They made it to the crime scene only a few minutes past the hour Sherlock had told Lestrade, thought John figured that the surprised look on the D.I's face meant that the man hadn't expected this to actually happen. It was an upscale building, split into four flats that were all significantly larger than the one at Baker Street and John had to force himself to refrain from making a joke about posh blokes always getting themselves into trouble for something to do. He may or may not have been accompanying the man who was the walking punch line to that particular bit of humour.

"It's the third one up, top floor. Sally will let you up, I've got to go tell Hopkins to get those people back," Greg told them as Sherlock stalked past and John paused to actually listen, nodding before he watched the tired detective head over to the crowded police tape marking off the scene.

Looking back to Sherlock, the doctor had to stop himself from releasing a string of curses that even the mad detective might have found creative. It was simply John's biological response whenever he found that Sally Donovan had stopped Sherlock at the entrance to any crime scene.

"They don't even have to get themselves killed anymore? The Freak just turns up and hopes things go his way, is that it?," Sally said with an ugly sneer once John was in ear shot, watching the woman glare at Sherlock was had drawn himself up to an impressive height. John was violently reminded of a cat bristling it's fur before hissing at you for getting too close.

"Lestrade called us in Donovan. Surely if you're finally clever enough to take your own deodorant to Anderson's, you could have figured that much out." The eyes which had been the delighted shade of bright green in the cab had returned to a steely grey as they pinned Sally in place as well as chains might have.

"A good call on that one Sergeant, Anderson was getting tired of my pointing out what you do on your off hours to everyone at the Yard. Bet he even thought I might not know -what a relief for him. Tell me, what _is_ it like for someone as insignificant and rat faced as Anderson to be _embarrassed_ to be dating you?," Sherlock pressed, each word dripping with an acid which John had never experienced himself which was a fact he silently thanked a god he wasn't even sure he believed in for.

"That's rich coming from you Holmes, who in their right mind would be caught dead with you," Donovan finally shot back, looking as though she might cry and strangle Sherlock in the same breath.

"For your information, I ha-,"

"Have to be going, isn't that right Sherlock? The crime scene Sally, let's wrap this up," John said quickly, pushing past the Sergeant himself for perhaps the first time ahead of Sherlock, who was busy eyeing John curiously for a moment before the detective's face became a study in composure again without another word. Which John was instantly grateful for.

The room was basically what John had expected. Expensive looking furniture but decorated in that new minimalist style all the new buildings seemed to have. Impressive but trend setting, merely following them instead. In fact, the only thing in the room that would look out of place in a housekeeping magazine was the body sprawled across the unmade bed.

"Oh," was the only response it got out of Sherlock before the detective started moving around with his tiny magnifying glass for several minutes until Lestrade came back up the stairs.

"Names Kingston Moran, 32 and been living here just over a year. Neighbour found him this morning, his car parked illegally and the neighbour was trying to help. Called as soon as he found the body," the D.I informed them, before giving John a stern look that let the doctor know what Lestrade would prefer if he could find a new way to stop Sherlock from trampling over every member of the squad.

"Old money then," Sherlock mumbled before John had a chance to figure out which facial expression could convey _you-can't-put-a-piranha-on-a-leash_ accurately.

"What are you on about?," Lestrade ventured, already looking like he might regret the amount of paper work this question could be followed with.

"He's a police officer, isn't he Lestrade? Must have been that and the note that made you call, and I will need to actually see that note before we leave. Officers can make a decent living, maybe private work but doesn't seem likely. Keeps regular hours or the neighbour wouldn't have come in, can't do that with private work. Old money then, if he wants to keep a flat like this," Sherlock explained without ever looking up and John knew when to wait for the rest of it.

"Not unusual for a suicide then considering his line of work and it is rather difficult to come back from shooting one's self in the head isn't it? Granted Mr. Moran won't ever get the chance to find out. This man was definitely murdered. I suppose even you are bound to get lucky every once in a while," the mad genius said once his too seeing eyes had fixed on Lestrade with a slight tilt of his head. Which might have been a salute to good work but Sherlock would never admit it.


	4. Caught Dead

**John's P.O.V**

"How do you figure that," the D.I asked exasperated.

_So he had been hoping to be wrong_ John thought.

"It's clear and plain. A tedious question to ask me, just take my word as gospel and find the killer," Sherlock said, with a dismissive wave of his hand before picking up one of the dead man's hands to study closer.

"Do you think you could walk us through it a bit more than that, hmm?," John pressed, knowing neither of the other men were going to find a way to work it out between themselves. He would have to ask Greg sometime how long it had taken in the years before John was around for Sherlock to figure out every single one of the D.I's buttons. Five minutes or five years.

Sherlock looked reluctant for a moment, weighing the options of hovering closer to a corpse or showing off just how clever he was. John was relieved that at least the detective went with the predictable answer.

"What do you people spend your time thinking about? Rainbows and gumdrops? It is obvious – murder. Look around you, look at this room and this flat. Nothing out of place, everything shining- just waiting for someone to point out how lovely it looks. Kingston Moran liked having people think he had good taste even though it's clear a decorator did this. Don't you see John, just look at the man," Sherlock told him in an inpatient tone, holding Moran's hand up a bit higher as if to emphasize whatever point he was making.

It took John a minute, but he got there.

"The clothes, you're talking about the clothes?," he asked, for the sake of not sounding over confident.

"Yes, very good shouldn't doubt yourself so much John. The clothes, precisely. Moran wouldn't be one caught dead, excuse the pun, in this polyester track suit number- it is rather nasty," the detective said and both the other men visibly stopped themselves from muttering _posh git_ under their collective breath.

"No- if he were going to kill himself he'd wear one of those suits in the closet. Leave an attractive corpse; no one wants to die in their sleep clothes. Not to mention his hands John, just look at them. No discolouration, no hint of orange."

"Yeah, what's it mean?"

"It _means_ that Moran wasn't holding the gun for hours, wasn't holding it long enough for the perspiration on his hand to react to the metal of the gun. Copper, zinc, bit of nickel in the coating. Should have discolouration on his fingers, all that time he spent thinking about whether he really wanted to off himself. But Moran didn't want to die, that gun was forced into his hands. Look at his sleeves, inconsistent gun powder residue. Moran certainly wasn't shot with a rifle but there isn't enough residue here for the handgun I'm sure was used. Bit of ferrozine spray will show you that. Another set of hands then- holding Moran's in place," Sherlock pointed out, wrapping his own long gloved fingers over the hand in question.

"Easy to fake angles when you don't think about it I suppose. Just tell the man to pick up a gun and he's bound to do it with his dominate hand. Then just hold it in place and pull the trigger for him," the detective finished without pausing for breath until he'd gotten it all out, dropping the dead hand as he turned to John expectantly.

"Bloody brilliant, yeah," John said with a smile, unable to stop himself from fluffing up Sherlock's feathers a bit more and stifling a laugh at how the other man preened under the compliments.

"So, the note, Lestrade," Sherlock wheeled, holding out an expectant hand.

"Still not sure what it means, even with all that," Greg muttered, though he gave up the plastic evidence bag without any more fuss.

Leaning over Sherlock's side a bit, John couldn't blame the Yard for not knowing what to do with the piece of paper they'd found. It made no sense to the doctor either.

_The Sandman's coming in his train of cars_  
_With moonbeam windows and with wheels of stars_  
_So hush you little ones and have no fear_  
_The man in the moon he is the engineer_  
_The railroad track it is a moonbeam bright_  
_That leads right up into the starry night_  
_So come you little ones and run up the stairs  
Put on your 'jamas and say your prayers_

"What's that mean then?" John asked after giving up on his own attempted deductions. The slightly pained expression on Sherlock's face told him that it didn't make much more sense to the detective either.

"It's an old poem John, The Sandman, meant for kids and their dreams. What does that have to do with Moran?" Sherlock pondered to the air, ignoring the eye roll from John once the doctor realized he wasn't a part of the conversation going on in Sherlock's head anymore.

"I'm going to need everything you've got if I'm calling this a murder Sherlock, no hiding evidence," Lestrade informed them after watching the silent act for a few moments.

"When I've got evidence to hide, I'll let you know. Send the gun and that shirt to Barts. I'll get some samples of the residue. Then John and I really must be off, we were just about t-,"

"To finish cleaning up that last disaster of an experiment, shouldn't put it off," John cut in, ignoring the confused look Greg gave him for interrupting a Sherlockian thought so casually and the suspicious glare he was getting from the mad detective himself.

"Baker Street then?" he added hopefully, to which Sherlock merely nodded before stealing into Anderson's unguarded pack to get those samples he'd wanted.

"Alright, I've got to go interview the brother but I'm serious about keeping me in the loop," said a D.I who John thought was already too accustom to being out of the loop to even know what he would do if Sherlock suddenly changed that pattern.

A short goodbye and a promise to call was all it took to get away from Lestrade and the prying eyes of the Yard. John tried not to be too pleased.

* * *

The ride back to their flat was a quiet one. Actually, it was a dead silent one. As Sherlock just looked out the window the whole time and ignored John as if he was a deleted bit of data on sweeping. It bothered John a bit. It might have bothered him more if it was out of the ordinary.

_I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?_

Sherlock shot from the cab the second it stopped in front of their flat, not pausing for anything as mundane as paying the cabbie or checking if John was following. Because John would pay and John would follow. Obvious. Childs play.

Even Sherlock stomping up the steps ahead of him didn't throw John off, he just made sure to close the door to the flat as he watched Sherlock pace around the space like the caged animal John almost always half expected he was. .

"Tea then?" he questioned without really asking, since John knew Sherlock would listen without answering. .

Heading into the kitchen and flicking on the kettle, looking back into the sitting room took John's breath away for longer than he cared to talk about.

Sherlock had sat himself in the armchair that had been unceremoniously deemed his through their unspoken agreement, curled into his usual tight ball with knees hugged tightly to his chest despite ruining the crisp lines of his suit. What caught John's attention was that the detectives head wasn't resting childlike against his knees as it would have been any other day. Instead it was tilted a little to the right as Sherlock's hands seemed to toy almost absentmindedly with John's not-quite-legal gun. Long, slender fingers tinkering with bullets and chambers as they ran across cool metal. The giant brain of one Sherlock Holmes' seemed otherwise occupied with thought and didn't look to be paying attention as the always overactive hands waved the gun around like it was merely an extension of his left arm. The barrel coming to rest against the left side of that mad, insane, beautiful, brilliant, cracked but not literally, non-bulletproof skull in way that made John feel as if someone was threatening him and it wasn't just the detective aiming somewhere decidedly _Not John_.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Why would he do that John? Why leave a child's poem and make the police look at things closer? Did he want to get caught or did he just want them to know there was someone out there that they couldn't catch?"

"What are you on about?"

"The case, John! Why do something so stupid, why reveal so much? Is he meant to be The Sandman? Is Moran? There is nothing to gain from it, no benefit to the killer! Why did he bother, why not go silently into the night? Why go through the trouble of forcing a man to shoot himself so convincingly only to put on a show afterwards? It makes not sense."

"I don't really expect these guys to use a lot of sense."

"Well you wouldn't, would you? You're an idiot, just like everyone on the Yard."

"Sher-,"

"Exactly the same, always wanting to be normal, be boring. John Watson who knows just how to act and just what people will think of him. How impressive, do you come by those gifts naturally or did you practice all by your clever self?"

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about- just give me the gun, alright Sherlock?" John gritted out, ignoring the swell of anger forming under the detective's words.

The steel grey eyes watched him with a vicious, almost defiant glare. Then a left hand full of insanity shifted from lazy twirling to sharp movements as it snapped the handle of the gun into John's waiting palm.

"Good, good thanks," the doctor said, releasing the short breath he hadn't meant to be holding.

"Please John, 3,471 verdicts of suicide in the last year in Britain alone, 2.9 percent because of guns as Mr. Moran could attest to a point. Much lower than in places like America but still. I'm hardly going to do something as tiresome as shoot myself."

"You'll have to excuse me if knowing that's true doesn't help much," which wasn't a lie. John forced himself not to visibly shiver at the thought that the only reason Sherlock continued to be here to be furious with in the first place was that the world's only consulting detective didn't want to die in any mundane sort of way.

"This isn't news to you John. I told you straight off that I couldn't guarantee either of our safety or wellbeing. Part of the danger you say you like so much," Sherlock told him in a voice that was starting to reach levels that would ensure Mrs. Hudson would ask John if they'd had a domestic in the morning.

"That's different! That's out there, that's other people. It's criminals and murderers and whoever else decides to act on the impulse to shoot you. That's solving cases, this is just you and it's not right. People don't go waving guns around like it doesn't matter."

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. It took Sherlock less than half a second to leap out of his chair to crowd into the doctor's space.

"Yes- imagine that, what people would say if they knew what John Watson has to put up with. Imagine all the talk. How embarrassing for you."

"That's not what I said, I don't think that," John snipped in return, pulling his body into its defensive soldier stance while also taking a careful step back.

Sherlock was quick to bridge that space again. If anything, the detective used it as an opportunity to lean closer into John.

"Filthy liar," the mad detective hissed into John's ear, deep voice dripping with venom. .

"I am not!," he snapped, trying to keep from yelling pointlessly when the head of tangled curls pulled back only far enough to stare properly at John with a face devoid of any emotion again. John had never been embarrassed of Sherlock. At his wits end maybe, or occasionally wishing his flatmate had an ounce of tact in his ridiculous body but never properly embarrassed by him. Those were the things that made Sherlock who he was.

Slowly the skull that was so precious to John shook from side to side, obviously disagreeing with the doctor's words.

"It would be best if you left now, easier for everyone in the long run," the soft Cupid's bow told him in words as blank sounding as the rest of Sherlock.

"I understand if you need some time to figure out what you will do, your things can stay while you and Harry find you a better alternative," the always direct and usually cutting tongue added what might have been casually.

"Sooner rather than later though, as quickly as you people can manage. I'll try to keep my expectation for that relatively low," was about the moment when John stopped watching Sherlock's mouth as if someone else was speaking and repositioned his furious glare to the detective on a whole.

"You don't get to just decide everything like that Sherlock! You don't get to tell me when to go," John growled at the other man, pressing back into the few centimeters between them before Sherlock finally moved the smallest bit back.

"I think you'll find that's exactly what I do," the detective bit back, manic grey eyes boring into John.

"Not with this Sherlock."

"Of course with this John! I was foolish earlier but allow me to be realistic for both our sakes now. I wish you gone. At your earliest convenience. "

"You can't mean that. You can't," John told him, swallowing thickly.

"You said stay; you said that- not me. So you don't get to decide that you want me to go now," he added, never looking away from the set of eyes which has a gaze so fierce it made the doctor wonder briefly if perhaps they were radioactive or something else equally life threatening.

_It would make sense_ he thought wearily.

"I'm letting you go," was the surprisingly soft whisper of a reply John got back, to which he blinked several times at before he was sure he had heard correctly.

"What are you on about? Why do you think that's what I want?"

The glare this earned him which screamed that the answer was _obvious you idiot_ reminded John that he really had to let Sherlock know how much he hated The Face. The affectionate name for exactly what the other man's features were doing at that moment, as if they both knew what was really going on when only one of them did.

"I am what I've always been John, I won't hold a grudge against you for that. I may have…forced your hand with _us_ but I've realized my mistake. It's not your fault, not really. No one would blame you. Who'd want to be tied down by a sociopath after all," Sherlock told him with a weak attempt at a smile which John might have appreciated more if it didn't seem so heartbreaking.

Well fuck.

"You know that's not tr-,"

"Of course it's true!," Sherlock, suddenly back at full volume, yelled at him, seeming to grow more frustrated with each second John didn't leave like he'd requested instead of being soothed by this information as the doctor had maybe hoped.

"It's true with Donovan, it's true with Lestrade, I bet it's even true with Anderson but I'd be pleased if you could prove that without me present – he does put me off so and the look on his face will be so hideous. I do think you believed you could be happy with me this morning but that was before you had data on how other people would factor in. You don't want other people to know. As Sergeant Donovan pointed out – You. Would. Not. Be. Caught. Dead. with Sherlock Holmes," the detective punctuated each word with a jab of an elegant finger in John's direction.

The overall effect left John stunned with his jaw hanging open like a big mouth bass.

"That look really isn't as adorable as I thought," Sherlock grumbled, looking like he had lost all interest in this argument they were having.

"I wish you to go. I wish you to go so that I may start my experiment of what You Gone will be like. Could be dangerous," said with the same is-that-heart-breaking-or-are-you-just-blind smile as the tall thin man curled into his chair again.

"You can get back to your boring life. I imagine Sarah will still take you back, especially once you've moved out of here and she knows you're serious about your relationship now. She'll be thrilled. No more Sherlock Holmes getting in the way for John Watson. You can both stop worrying about the Freak and move on with your dull existences," was added as a softly spoken after thought while the head of curls finally nestled into pointy knees as if no longer observing the room meant nothing in the room could see Sherlock Holmes either.

Perhaps that had been true for longer than John cared to think about.


	5. If You Only Knew

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

_Tell me, what is it like for someone as insignificant and rat faced as Anderson to be embarrassed to be dating you?_

While he hadn't yet stooped to an Anderson level, non-existent deity forbid, this was almost as bad.

_This was humiliating. _

Sherlock was not use to being wrong. Sure, there was always something. Little details in cases which he might not get just so, but on a whole he was usually still right. In fact, even when he was actually wrong it wasn't about anything of importance. So what if the Sun went around the Earth, wait or was it the other way around and he'd forgotten again? It didn't matter; the world certainly didn't revolve around his understanding of the solar system so being technically incorrect there didn't register with Sherlock.

With John, however, he had been wrong.

Wrong.

Monumentally wrong.

Fullstop.

And being so wrong was humiliating. It made his stomach turn and his skin crawl. A reaction he never wanted to research further. Mycroft would scold him for making such a leap of logic without accounting for all the variables. Sherlock prayed the insufferable git would never find out about all this no matter how unlikely that was. Mycroft could always tell when it came to this kind of thing. Had been able to ever since Sherlock was five and tried desperately to convince his worshipped older brother that the boy across the street was too stupid to be his friend so it really didn't matter that the boy hadn't wanted to be in the first place.

_Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?  
All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_

He instantly decided to break all of his brother's umbrella stands at the next available opportunity.

Being wrong about John was worse than all that. It made Sherlock want to blow something up or see if it were possible to peel off his own skin just for the sake of destroying something, he wasn't terribly picky about what.

was the chorus inside his head. God, why couldn't John stop staring at him like that?

_I am not fragile or precious, go away, look somewhere else, has your face always been like that, have your eyes always been sad?_

No. It did not matter. Irrelevant.

He focused on digging his cheek further against an equally sharp knee, letting that tiny pain be a point of clarity for his mind. The world's only consulting detective would not acknowledge that gnawing feeling somewhere near his sternum.

"That would be the end of the conversation, if you were still looking for it," he muttered into the familiar black fabric of his trousers. He would not look up. Not to see John. He would not. He would not. He would not.

_Ah, finger nails dug into his thigh – those half moons helped._

Hearing the door as John left would be bad enough. Listening to an empty flat would be painful. Having to hear the knock which was a request to let Harry into the flat in about four days to gather John's things would be excruciating. For now Sherlock had tiny pains, little truths building up to the real thing.

Still. Those kind, amused, tired, blue blue blue eyes stayed trained on him. Sherlock could feel it through his suit of armour made of the most expensive cotton and wool. Like the red flare of a sniper rifle sight fixed on a target. Like the beam of light you knew was the sun as you sunk lower into cold water. It was suffocating.

"Please, John," was added in a whisper, and who knew his voice could achieve such a thing. It was a whisper though. It was most definitely not a plea, there was no pleading in his voice certainly. Somehow the doctor took this as an invitation to move closer regardless.

"Sherlock, can we ju-,"

"Do not touch me," Sherlock growled, stopping the other man in his tracks with one tanned and luminous hand left hanging limply in the air between them. The bit of anger in his words was enough to make the detective forget his vow to never look at John again (damn) and Sherlock couldn't help cataloguing the wounded look on the doctor's face when he drew that beautiful limb away from the detective's shoulder. It was an expression he would not cherish but would keep forever just the same. A pittance for what he'd ruined. "Some silence would be lovely, show yourself out if you wouldn't mind," he told His John without looking away, taking the growing pain in the lines of the doctors face as the purifying lashes they obviously were if only anyone had been able to see Sherlock's insides where all the damage was hidden.

Why must he make this so hard? Sherlock hadn't asked much of him, far less than he'd asked of John that morning at least. And there was no time like the present to get started on the You Gone experiment. It would be a spectacular one, Sherlock would ensure it. Far better than that time he'd discovered how a human pancreas reacted in a microwave even. You Gone would have to be his finest hour, as Sherlock was also fairly certain it would be his last. Best to keep that bit to himself.

If John only knew.

Those were dangerous words. Things got too dark around those words and Sherlock would never say them. Would never say them like a lover might. Would never drip _if you only knew…_ into John's ear like the poison it was. Sherlock would never let that dark touch His doctor. Never. Never. Never.

_If you only knew…_

No

_I once looked across this room here and fancied that you must have been made by the molecules of one particular star. Did you know that? That there must have been one star that didn't quite die before it turned into something else and that something else must have been you. Once that door over there closes, I'll inject as much cocaine as I can get my hands on which is rather a lot ask Mycroft and I will think of stars. Not you because I know you wouldn't like it if you were a dying man's final thoughts. Stars then. Stars instead. _

No. Stop.

_Have you heard of thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura John? It's this delightful little blood disease, makes all these itsy bitsy clots in the blood until it ruins the whole system if you don't get it treated properly. I thought I had that for a while, then I thought it might have been you floating around my blood stream. It explains why it hurts now; I didn't get a plasma exchange when maybe I should have. Now you've made the blood too thick, but I'll open as many veins as I can to try and get it out to see if that helps. I'll start once the flat is quiet. But I won't think of you then either, how's that John? Is that fair? I'll think of thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura and how nice it will be not to have it hurt where it shouldn't hurt anymore._

Not good. A bit not good.

_Maybe I would have that gun back. I know it's boring and tedious, please spare me the obvious John. I know. I'll have it any way. I will wait for the door to close and for the quiet to come, but surely it is okay that I do it before Harry comes round. Surely you'd be okay with that. I'll do my best not to think of you then either. It will be a bit harder since you're gun is so you and maybe I like that it is but I will try. I would hope you know that I tried to not think of you and I will list the parts of the gun as I do it as listing all the parts of things sometimes helps me clear my head of the useless bits. Not that you're a useless bit, it's just that you wouldn't like me thinking of you and I wouldn't like me thinking of you because then I might take it all back and that is decidedly not fine. So I won't think of you, I shall be selfish. That is what people do when they take bullets that aren't given to them. _

Christ. Caring is not an advantage.

"Go," he reiterated to the doctor, manic eyes wishing for some way to convey that even the brilliant detective could only ask in so many ways. That it would get too painful to keep asking soon.

"Leave."

He would not ask again. He would not. He would not. He would not. _If only you knew…_

No.

* * *

**John's P.O.V**

"Jesus Sherlock – I'm not leaving you. You don't get to push me away,"

John wasn't able to follow Sherlock's orders once those words had escaped him, and he quickly launched himself at the twisted up ball of detective to wrap strong arms around him. The doctor couldn't watch Sherlock pull further away from him; hiding in that great mind of his till no one could get in. It wasn't the best laid plan but John couldn't think of anything else that might ground Sherlock much more in the present.

Upon reflection, he should have anticipated the kicked back. As it was, when the consulting detective instantly lashed against the cage of John's arms it sent them both toppling to the ground. Sherlock struggled blindly, hitting whatever bit of John happened to exist in the same space as one of those ridiculously long limbs at any particular moment. John let him, use to taking blows in general and use to ones much worse than what Sherlock was capable of. Physically, anyway. There was a distinction there, another exception made by Sherlock Holmes. John Watson was not a liar and he tried to be as honest with himself as with anyone else so he would not deny the words that still rung in his head.

_Stop worrying about the Freak… _  
Go…  
Leave…

It made John tighten his grip further without realizing it. It took the extremely frustrated look on Sherlock's face coupled with the increased effort by the detective to get away to enlighten John to this development. He continued to cling on fiercely regardless. Even when the world's only consulting detective howled with rage.

_You don't understand, you don't, I can't lose you either_ John thought wildly as he worked his good leg to pin down one of Sherlock's. Successful enough.

Mrs. Hudson was going to tut at them for hours tomorrow to be sure that they knew how little she appreciated the yelling at all hours of the night but John thought it was worth managing to secure both of Sherlock's legs without relinquishing his embrace on two thin arms.

Thought it a worthy trade to receive none of those fresh scones if it meant his shoulder could take just a few more minutes of the violent thrashing the other man's body continued to attempt even if it was becoming obviously pointless.

John Watson briefly thought that he could go his whole life with Mrs. Hudson never speaking to him again if it meant he could stand to listen to the other man chant _let go, let go, let go_ over and over again in that broken baritone until the doctor was sure that beautiful voice would be lost altogether forever.

It would have been a fair trade.

When the shaking finally slowed to a stop, John risked a look down. Sherlock looked every bit the image of indignant outrage but the detective's eyes were still searching frantically over John's face for the reason behind this. Other than the obvious one. Because apparently the other man expected there to be another one.

"Sherlock, you need to listen to me," John said firmly in his best army voice, trying not to feel relieved at the scowl shot up at him for the direct order.

"I'm not going anywhere you prat, I'll shout it in Anderson's great gran's face if that's what you'd like but you will not go telling me to kip at Harry's,"

This earned him a slightly less enraged, more intrigued look. John smiled slightly, for what felt like the first time since that vague other lifetime of this morning. He leaned down to press a kiss to that improbable Cupid's bow of a mouth. It was a different sort of kiss from the night before. Not rushed or rough, not a kiss asking for more. It was gentle and soft, and if it happened to be reassuring then John Watson would have been glad for it even if he would never make such a claim himself.

"You can't mean that John, do not mean it," Sherlock told him sternly once John had given him the ability to speak again, though didn't feel the need to move further than the few centimeters from the detective's face required to do so.

"You should have let me say something this morning," John countered, placing light kisses in between every couple of words while stopping himself from chuckling at how Sherlock's brow furrowed at his words.

"I didn't think you'd want people to know, I figured you just weren't thinking about it because of the case and everything. And…" John struggled to find the words which would keep the man beneath him calm enough to not redirect a boney knee in his direction.

"And I didn't want Donovan, or Lestrade or anyone taking the piss about it. I didn't want them telling you that you shouldn't play so rough with your toys or something. That's not us. I didn't want them to think less of you because of me. You'd have second guessed everything if they did," John eventually told the detective with a frown.

"Brilliant plan, as always," Sherlock murmured beneath him, which pleased John to hear him talking again but the doctor rolled his eyes none the less.

"Yes, no need for the brilliant Sherlock Holmes to tell me that that plan didn't work out."

"I'm still serious John,"

"About which part?" he asked, silently dreading any answer before it even left Sherlock's mouth.

"This can't be allowed to continue," Sherlock announced gravely, eyes remaining fixed on John's as if to gauge his reaction to this revelation. John merely shook his head.

"I wasn't really looking for permission Sherlock."

* * *

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

_Frustrating_

That's what this was.

"This can't be allowed to continue because I will not allow it," he attempted to clarify, while also attempting to freeze up his features so that John would not know how Sherlock could possibly be _persuaded_ to change his mind on this. Sherlock Holmes would not change his mind. He was not quite so changeable.

"Well you're a stupid git and I don't take orders from you," John replied and Sherlock cursed the almost amused tone this came in. Cursed the labium superius oris and the labium inferius oris which met his again so sweetly that it made him want to pour acid down his throat to kill whatever was flying around in his stomach each time John did that.

"You have to," he mumbled weakly, brain deciding all on its own that now was a fine time to make note of the fact that John's eyelashes were precisely the same shade of gold as his hair. Decided for itself right then and there that it was deeply pleased that John was finely made all the way down to the details.

"I don't," the doctor repeated and even if Sherlock disagreed, he didn't fight against the slackened grip on his arms.

"John – you don't understand."

"Then explain it. Because I have to be missing something if in the span of less than twelve hours you've written me off as a lost cause,"

"That's not true," Sherlock told him, making a deeply offended face when he'd been going for nonchalant indifference. John was not a lost cause. The good doctor had it backwards.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_

"I will destroy you," he finally said, settling on the word destroy despite the growing certainty that this word did not encompass all that he would do to John if the doctor didn't heed his advice.

_I'll scratch my way into every skin cell, every muscle, every ligament. I will burrow into each of your bones. Even the ridiculous incus, malleus, and stapes in your ear that are barely even bones so you might not notice but I will notice and I will be there. I will seep into your bone marrow and make every inch of your skeleton ache so you mustn't let me in_

"I'll take everything. There won't be a speck of you left," was added in that strange was-that-really-his-voice whisper, which only the kindly face of a good doctor had ever managed to create.

_I will have that star light. I will have that diseased bit of you that's found it's way into my blood without even asking, I will have that gun back and maybe you can list all the parts of it for me. I will have those things and you will not get them back. I don't share. _

"But what a wonderful way to go," John whispered back softly but Sherlock knew. He knew. He knew. He knew that it was not meant lightly, could tell by the look in the other man's eyes. Soldier eyes, determined eyes, brave eyes.

Foolish eyes.

Caring is not an advantage after all. Hasn't anyone told you that John Watson?

"You'll have to stay then," Sherlock told him dumbly.

"You'll have to stay. I don't want to hurt you, look at you there with your maxilla and your mandible how could I want to? I'll do it any way John, I won't mean it but I will. You'll have to stay even then. I don't mean to hurt you but I might burn you down any way. If you stay now, you'll have to stay then. No arguments. That's the agreement or I swear I won't eat breakfast for the rest of my life," Sherlock told him fiercely, ignoring the definitely not there childish tone his voice most absolutely did not have.

"God, you're an idiot. It's all your fault but I could have told you this morning I wasn't going to be able to stop now. I'll stay as long as you'll have me."

Sherlock wanted so desperately for that to be true that he forgot to be offended for being called an idiot.

"That could be a very long time," he pointed out practically; shifting his chest up the tiny amount it could from the floor in an effort to eliminate space between them.

"Then you'll have to stay too," the good, fantastic, brilliant doctor informed him plainly.

Sherlock pushed up that bit further to meet John's lips with a hard kiss. A crushing, bruising, painful kiss. Which was fine. It was all fine. Sherlock felt that it was what he deserved. In exchange for all he was taking, a bit of pain was all fine.

An eye for an eye.


	6. Chesire Cats and Wolves

Authors Note: Sorry this one is a bit late and just a tiny bit shorter than usual. I stopped before it got going into too much, but I hope you enjoy! Note: I've used *** to show a change in time/flashback, hopefully it's still easy to follow.

**John's P.O.V**

When morning light clawed at his eyes the next day, John noted the lack of panic he felt when he tried to breathe in and dark curls tickled against his nose with the movement.

Waking up beside Sherlock Holmes is not scary, he realized.

Might have been yesterday but that was yesterday. That was yesterday's lifetime and this was today. In the time between those two universes, John had almost lost this maniac beside him. Possibly forever.

That was much scarier than waking up in a posh bed. So, John didn't panic.

Instead he turned his head to fully take in the man lying next to him, sighing at the sight.

_I almost lost you yesterday and then I never would have known this_ he thought to himself, running a gentle hand through mad and unruly curls.

Because Sherlock was still asleep and John was silently thanking whoever was responsible because he was absolutely certain that he could die happy now after seeing Sherlock Holmes asleep in his bed.

It was the only time the doctor might have described the other man as looking peaceful.

The always unmanageable curls were mussed with sleep and sticking out even more for it. The ivory skin looked warm against the white sheets. Sherlock's face, for once, was free of expression but not in its usual forced way. Just in a relaxed way, one that smoothed out all the lines until one was forced to notice how young the detective really looked.

_So young_ John thought and it didn't matter that other people would try to convince him that the other man's being a few months shy of thirty one made that statement untrue. Other people just hadn't seen Sherlock Holmes like this, not like John had.

That thought made the doctor happy and sent him back to the night before at the same time.

_The kiss hurt. The irony wasn't lost on John Watson and for a long while he let the hurt do what it was meant to. Then he pulled away from his insane genius and stared at the eyes which looked a little less terrified than they had a few minutes ago. _

"That's enough of that," he said softly, pushing himself off the floor and dusting off before lending a hand to pull Sherlock with him. The detective obliged but long fingers were quick to clutch onto woolly jumper again in two fistfuls. So John steered them into the other man's bedroom without a second thought beyond the fact that he didn't want to be alone at the moment either.

Warm kisses touched his neck several times, as if Sherlock were trying out gentle to see if it fit him. John thought he might never get use to how warm the detective could be, in spite of how cold the man could make himself appear. He was so warm that John half understood why it might burn him down.

It only took a few relatively silent minutes to pull off the layers of clothes between the two of them. Sherlock was quick to push John back on to the bed, moving his trail of kisses over the newly exposed flesh. It was different still from what they'd done before. Tender maybe. Sherlock's lips mapped out strange parts of his body. Landed on each of John's finger tips, just above his belly button, spent several semi-uncomfortable for John minutes over the ragged scar on his shoulder. Semi-uncomfortable until he swore he heard Sherlock whisper thank you to a bullet wound before moving up to capture John's mouth again. The doctor didn't question out loud why the other man did this and perhaps that had been important.

With mad scientist nails pressed into the skin on his sides, John reached a careful hand into the space between them, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's length. He stroked up and down, setting a firm pace but never tearing his eyes away from the black holes of Sherlock's. The good doctor's own breath hitched when one slender set of fingers mirrored his own actions, sending pleasurable waves from the friction through his body. John gripped on the small of Sherlock's back tightly, cursing softly. The other man pulled away from the eye contact at last, burying a head of curls into John's neck. The doctor felt the body over top of him contract before tumbling over the edge and was quick to follow suit, letting the blank white take over his vision. Until John Watson was sure that he hadn't actually fallen apart into a million undone pieces, when his world came back into focus and everything was Sherlock Holmes.

There was the breath of a contented sigh against the still sweaty skin of John's neck, a nose nudging it's way further into the space there.

"Please, God, let me live," Sherlock mumbled happily while John had been busy tracing small circles on too soft skin which he had silently vowed to never allow the sun to burn.

"What's that?"

"Please, God, let me live. I think I can understand it now, why you might choose those in your very last few seconds," the detective explained in the same contented tone before quickly falling asleep.

It was only when John had laid awake much later than that, watching the precious ins and outs of lungs he was trying to convince himself would continue to work even if he closed his eyes, that John's mind acknowledged the words which had been spoken to the space where John's neck met his shoulder by the cracked detective as he came.

_Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. _

"You're staring," came from just under the edge of the duvet in a sleep raspy voice.

"I know."

"You said that was rude, that people don't like being looked at all the time," Sherlock accused, voice firmer this time as the bright pale green eyes came into focus more.

"Do you mind?" John countered lazily, mind busy trying to figure out if Sherlock kept these crisp sheets for the sake of making himself look somehow soft and made of something other than angles. It didn't seem like a crazy idea in the early morning haze.

"It's alright," the detective admitted as he scooted closer to John to fill the space sleep had put between them and draped a lazy long arm over John's chest.

Now. Now the doctor was absolutely certain he could die happy.

John leaned to press a kiss to the detective's forehead quickly, a tiny voice in his head telling him to brace himself for the scolding such a small display of sentiment would earn him. Instead, when he settled back down, it was to the sight of a pouting Sherlock. "What is it?"

"You didn't wake me up," Sherlock whined in a way John wasn't aware one could do after the age of three.

"Was I supposed to?," the doctor was unable to stop confusion from drawing itself over his features, trying to remember when he'd agreed to do that.

"Of course you were John, I've a very interesting case to get on with and here you are letting me waste away. Can't leave it to the Yard to figure out, can we?," the other man questioned with mirth in his eyes, shaking his head at John.

"They should be properly out of their depths by now," Sherlock added with an honest to god grin, pressing his own lips to John's cheek so that the doctor could actually feel the corners of that mouth pulling upwards before the detective promptly launched himself out of bed. Presumably to find the perfect battle suit for the day.

"And you're going to show up to point out exactly what level their stupidity has reached today?," John asked, quirking his brow so his expression matched what he had no doubt was a word for word quote from the detective himself.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes, it's my business to know what other people don't know," the other man said with a sniff. Still, John smiled at how pleased Sherlock couldn't help looking at the idea of starting his day out doing precisely as John had guessed.

* * *

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

"In your own time. But quite quickly."

John scowled at him but it hardly mattered.

God, people are stupid.

How can they stand it? All that uselessness has to wear a person down eventually. Press on their tiny skulls until the hollow containers implode.

"How do you people get up in the morning, is it sheer force of will?," he grumbled crossly, feeling his skin itch watching Lestrade flip through pages of the report _painfully_ slowly. A toddle could outpace the man as far as reading went. It was a trial on Sherlock's nerves.

"Yeah, first thought in my head this morning was that I really hope I get to ruin Sherlock Holmes' day today," the DI answered dully – which caused a scowl to fully form on the detective's face.

"Just get on with it, _some_ of us are trying to stop a murderer," Sherlock clipped, working furiously to not be overly offended by every breath the grey haired man took which wasn't used to give him all the available data.

"Sherlock," John warned with a sigh.

Ignoring the growing irrational concern that John Watson was going to wear out his lungs too soon if he kept breathing like that, Sherlock merely intensified his glare at the _stupid_ sitting across from him.

"Look, there's not a lot to tell. Kingston Benjamin Moran, thirty two and single. Live in his current apartment for 14 months. He was born in London, went to Eton and then decided to join the force. Been living in London ever since. Money came from a trust fund set up before his parents died while he was in school. All his mates we could interview said he had been acting strange and skittish lately, more distant. No steady girlfriend in months. Chief of his division said he's been calling in sick or passing off cases when he was on the clock. I tracked down his brother, but they weren't close. Brother was in the army, been away for quite a few years and I'm sure John can tell you calling back home isn't all that easy," Lestrade listed off for him, looking to more exasperated each second that Sherlock did not share in said exasperation.

"If we didn't have you telling us different, I'd be damn close to calling this one a suicide and letting it go," the DI finished.

"It's not surprising that the man's friends and family are idiots, most everyone is. However, you need to get me access to any cases he had in the last few months and you should cross reference any shootings with the gun used on Mr. Moran. Odds are we're looking at a revenge killing. Family member of a criminal perhaps, more likely a family member of a victim that thinks their dearly beloved didn't get proper treatment," Sherlock contemplated out loud, though his hands gestured out a list of each point he made without any active thought put into it. Uncontrollable things. The last few days had taught him that at least.

"What makes you think the killer is connected to a victim in one of Moran's cases?," John asked, obviously struggling to keep up. Sherlock vowed to always find John needing further clarification endearing, a clear sign that a curious mind existed in the wonderful man. He would not think about how the skull never asked him such tedious questions.

"We're looking for connections John. This man wasn't killed randomly on the street, or for money as we can tell from the perfectly intact flat and bank accounts. So, barring a mentally ill man plotting murder for no reason, revenge and crimes of passion are the best bet for motives. Love is a powerful motivator," Sherlock said with a smile, savouring the knowledge that John was supressing an eye roll so that Sherlock would keep going. Delicious.

"But Moran's been isolating himself, cutting people off. No close friends, no girlfriend, doesn't see his brother. Who would kill the man so methodically when there was no one in his life to care so much? So, not love for him- love for someone else. Could be someone he helped convict, but Moran only ever did regular police work. Run of the mill criminals, unlikely that one of them had the means to pull this kind of stunt. Even more unlikely that they would use the note to draw our attention to it after the fact. Family of a wronged victim though, there's a grudge that runs much deeper. Feels they weren't given due course, that Moran slipped up somewhere. Have to make him pay for that. Explains why he was killed like that, staged suicide with a gun to his head. Wants us to know that Moran ought to have felt guilty, unable to live with what he did. So, we'll check the old cases won't we," the detective concluded with a smug smirk, having reduced both of the other men in the room to wide eyed guppies once again.

"Fantastic," John told him with that dazed smile he got whenever Sherlock was being particularly clever. It was a small, delightful thing which Sherlock allowed himself to bask in for a full twenty three seconds.

Starlight. Starlight indeed.

"Have the files sent to Baker Street by your least annoying officers. If I so much as smell Anderson coming round the corner, I'm off the case and you'll be left to drown in your own ineptitude," he told Lestrade solemnly, as if the detective truly regretted to inform the DI of this. Not true of course.

He relished any opportunity to see the other man squirm, hopelessly stuck between a rock and one Sherlock Holmes.

"We need to get to Bart's John," no point in waiting around watching Lestrade wait around for any results.

And he was not taking part in any hideous small talk.

"Now?," the doctor questioned but stood up any way with a look of apology to the DI slumped over his desk.

"Yes, now. Molly's waiting," Sherlock informed him with a quick twirl of his coat as he walked out the door.

The Cheshire cat grin pulled at the muscles of his lips again as the detective fought to not be too pleased with the idea of a long afternoon spent in a morgue with John.

A failed effort, but Sherlock was willing to overlook it. He couldn't help that John looked adorable when trying to guess which body part he was going to have to try and convince Sherlock he didn't absolutely need for the sake of science or a case.

* * *

**John's P.O.V**

Thumbs.

Had he been alone, John might have pinched himself. Since Sherlock was still glaring at him and Molly was still looking like a deer caught in headlights, John settled for merely blinking. Several times, just to be absolutely sure he wasn't hallucinating from some poison the detective hadn't warned him about. But no. Nothing in the lab at Bart's changed despite multiple attempts by John's eyelids. Not one thing.

So this was real life.

This was really his life, to be clear.

John Hamish Watson did indeed live in a world where thumbs were considered a good compromise.

"Sherlock – no."

John, you're being incredibly unreasonable."

*** Sherlock had wanted arms. Had been quick to tell poor sweet Molly just that the second they finished going over the evidence of Moran's shirt to find that the residue was as inconclusive as Sherlock had predicted. The detective had insisted that arms were necessary to test how the gun needed to be held as well as what type of hands would have been needed to do the holding if they ever wanted to limit the pool of possible suspects. So arms, necessary and obvious apparently.

John had been quick to turn down this idea. This somehow let Sherlock think they were bargaining for what could and could not be kept in the fridge back at Baker Street.

"Hands then John, you can't deny me that. They're so much smaller but I should be able to get accurate results if I can get en-,"

"No- absolutely not. More hands than arms isn't better Sherlock. Why can't you just read the articles on gun powder, it's not like they get published for fun you know."

John may as well have said that they should stop by the river on the way home to drown a bag of kittens. He could have said that he fancied Sherlock in one of those grey tracksuits people at the gym always wore. It would have done just as well to announce right then and there that he never wanted to drink another drop of tea, so long as he may live. Those would have been fine alternatives to saying that Sherlock should put a little faith in the conclusions reached by a brain that _wasn't_ his.

Judging by the bewildered and slightly horrified look the doctor received at the suggestion.

Then they'd reached thumbs. ***

"It's not unreasonable, plenty of people don't want thumbs in with the vegetables," John protested adamantly.

"Well those people obviously aren't as dedicated to the important work," the detective retorted with a decisive nod of his head, saying the word work the way a saint might proclaim the word of the holy spirit.

"The work doesn't always require body parts you know, not every case needs it," a weaker argument made by a man who didn't see victory coming his way.

"Only the good ones," Sherlock agreed with an airy sigh, as if this was a burden that John shared with him and hoped would one day change too.

He did not stop the extravagant eye roll this time and the other man looked properly put out.

""It's just a bit of thumbs John, it's really not that bad. You won't even notice. What if I only use them for the gun powder tests? You can throw them out like you do all my best experiments after the case," was the bargain Sherlock made, pouting quite heavily by the end of it at his own mention of all the precious data lost simply because John couldn't stand the smell of decomposition for a wee bit longer.

The detective did have the good sense to turn up the puppy dog look to go along with the pouting though, an effort not missed by the doctor.

"Alright fine," followed by an enormous Watson sigh.

"But you should really start saving those looks Sherlock, they aren't going to get you out of everything," John added, forcing himself not to grin right along with the mad man who had perked up quite nicely when John had finally allowed a dash of corpse to reside in the flat again.

"Brilliant John- don't just stand there Molly, wrap up your freshest quick before he gets around to changing his mind," Sherlock was quick to scold the mousey girl who jumped at his words in half a second before hurrying to follow orders. John watched the other man grin so excitedly that it was easy to picture the detective rubbing his hands together while cackling madly about how he was going to get you my pretty. A sight that both melted John's heart and made him seriously question the sanity level of anyone living in 221B.

"Try not to look so pleased with yourself, it's not decent. People will think you were raised by wolves," John reminded him in the best serious definitely not amused tone he could muster.

Which does nothing but make Sherlock beam even more brightly at him.

"Not wolves John. Mycroft scared them away before the adoption papers could go through unfortunately.

Authors Note: The case continues next week! Do let me know what you think, I love the feedback!


	7. Explainations

**Authors Note**: I'm terribly sorry this is a few days late, it took me a bit to figure out how to go about writing this chapter. hopefully you enjoy it!

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

He hated cab rides. Hated that they were merely a means to an end, getting from one place to wherever you needed to be next. They weren't truly anything. An in-between stage. Something becoming something else. Necessary, unavoidable, predictable. Hateful. Cab rides were just glorified black holes of _waiting to get to the good part_ in the detective's mind.

And if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes hated almost as much as he hated being bored, it was waiting.

_Is he purposely driving slower? Are we even going to the flat? Did John tell him to loop around the block a bit for fun? Are we being kidnapped?_

No. Sherlock would know if he were being kidnapped. He would have at least been interested if that were the case.

He decided, tentatively, that it was unlikely any potential kidnappers or his flatmate were trying to genuinely push him into insanity through sheer lack of anything better to do. Tentatively because every second spent in the back of this cab may as well have been another decade ticking past so maybe that remote possibility wasn't so crazy after all. He was dying of boredom. Literally. Sherlock was quite certain. It wasn't the way he had expected to go, but these things rarely worked out the way one plans. The detective was so bored he was absolutely positive his brain was sending the signal to the rest of his transport that this was it. Commence shut down, cease fire, cut the engines. Because if the world was going to be so insistently uninteresting then Sherlock would be rather insistently uninterested right back.

It had been eleven minutes, 47 seconds, 12 milliseconds. The detective was ready to demand that John allow him to begin his new experiment immediately, right where they sat, or Sherlock was prepared to scream bloody murder the rest of the time he was subjected to the hideous leather interior of the vehicle.

Really, John had an unhealthy obsession with the discrete handling of body parts. How could the world become more apt at dealing with the presence of a thumb without the rest of the hand (or body for that matter) if Sherlock wasn't there to repeatedly expose them to it? It was the logical thing to do.

Looking over at the other man, Sherlock was given a glare that may have said that doing the logical thing might end with a certain ex-army doctor re-enacting one of those "bad days".

Why must he live in a world so dead set against progress?

Once his eyes had settled on poor, sweet, looking-a-bit-homicidal John Sherlock decided to play his favourite distraction game. Pin the deduction on the doctor.

_Bags under eyes still present, eight hours of sleep not sufficient? Need to run tests on John's sleep patterns. _  
_Still glaring. Upset at me? Or the case? The thumbs, maybe? Perhaps me and the thumbs. Okay yes, definitely me and the thumbs. But he's slouching, hasn't pushed me away or asked to get out of the cab for one of those pointless walks. Not that mad then_  
_Stomach grumbling, typical. Have I made him miss any meals? Oh breakfast, right. I forgot about breakfast. Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

In short, John is not a very well kept man and this is not a new revelation. At least Donovan couldn't claim that he must have blackmailed the good doctor into being with him. Sherlock Holmes, as always, had proof that this was not the case.

"You're staring."

"I know."

John heaved a great sigh and Sherlock briefly wished desperately with every single one of his nerve endings for a spirometer. Perhaps the key to unravelling the mystery of John Watson was hidden somewhere in those lungs the doctor seems so insistent on abusing.

"Do you mind?," the detective asked with the tiniest hint of a smirk, echoing John's own words from that morning back at him. Sherlock was always pleased as punch when he managed to do something like that, turning things back on the doctor. Non-existent deity knew John did it often enough to him. Though Sherlock couldn't blame the other man. The more people treated every word he decided to utter as gospel, the better the world would be. It made sense that this appreciation should start with John. It was the way of things.

"Well, you do it so much on purpose, I'm not sure how I feel about you doing it for no reason," John explained.

"Would it make you feel better if there were a reason?"

"No. Worse, maybe."

"Alright then, I'll put a stop to all that looking at you by accident."

"See that you do."

"Only with good reason from now on."

"Good. And Sherlock?,"

"What?"

"Keep those thumbs in that box or I'll be forced to confiscate them as an early Christmas present for Anderson."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?"

"Oh John, how can you say things like that and expect people not to look at you by mistake."

**John's P.O.V**

John thought later that this might be all his fault.

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

"Tea?"

"Love some, two sugars."

"Yes right, that's what I meant," John said wearily with a small shake of his head but went in search of the kettle regardless.

Sherlock felt a small smile tug at his lips. John was funny. He ought to tell him that sometime. In case it was another one of those things the doctor wasn't aware of, like proper blood splatter patterns or all the sunlight he was constantly leaking over everything he touched.

They were both ignoring the elephant in the room, as it were. Not that Sherlock had actually managed to procure an elephant, Mycroft was still being rather difficult about allowing exotic animals. No, what John was trying to use tea to block out was the dozens of boxes stacked in 221B as if the pair of them were trying to build a fortress of cardboard like Sherlock had done once when he was six after Mummy had told him being a pirate wasn't a practical occupation.

The files for Moran's old cases. Excellent. Perhaps Lestrade was improving with prolonged exposure to people with intelligence levels beyond those necessary for functioning.

"We're going to have to get started on those tonight," he pointed out to the good doctor as Sherlock himself perched at the table in front of his microscope to get just the right mixture of trace minerals to put in a solution for the thumbs. Nickel, zinc, iron. Wonderful. He simply had to know exactly how Moran's hands should have looked, exactly what discolouration should have been present.

"I was hoping you weren't going to say that. Say something else."

"Like what John? I'll set up the thumbs and then we really need to sort through the files for irregularities."

"Anything. Anything else."

"Alright. Did you notice the rain today? I thought it felt particularly wet."

"God, I can see why you don't do small talk,"

"Rather obvious John."

* * *

The tea was cold. Disgusting. Not John's best work.

_How long has that been sitting there?_

Quick glance at the clock. 3:17 in the morning. Ah. Roughly seven hours then.

That would explain the stiffness in his legs, the nagging itchy feeling behind his ears and why John looked even more murderous than he had in the cab. Looking less like manslaughter and closer to first degree Sherlock reckoned.

"John, my hair keeps tickling my ears, could you fix it for me."

"What?"

"My hair, its putting me off."

"Sherlock, no. Absolutely not. You can lift your own arms and fix your own hair. I'm not doing it for you. I might never do anything for you again after this," John grumbled, snapping shut another old manila folder with less care than had been evident all those hours ago before Sherlock had lost himself in the work.

"We need to find the link John, it's here somewhere."

"Yeah well our flat use to be here somewhere too and I'm starting to have my doubts about finding it either. "

"It's not that much paper,"

"Yes it is, actually. And none of Moran's cases were strange. He was just a regular officer. Hell, he dealt with just as many parking tickets as he did criminals."

"I'll admit his professional work leaves something to be desired for the imagination but I hardly picked who the victim was."

Another sigh. Sherlock scowled back at it, hating the air that he was convinced would take John away before Sherlock was finished with him. If ever such a time occurred.

"I know that, it's just… there's nothing Sherlock. No scandals, hardly ever any appeals. The man never deviated from the planned court statements, never slipped up on the stand. He was just a good cop. And I can't read another file about a man denying he killed his son just to find out that Moran did everything by the book again. "

"What was that?"

"Did you hear anything I just said? If you went to your mind palace I sw-,"

"No John, what was that last bit? What man, what son?,"

"Oh, that was the last folder. The guy's lawyers didn't put up much of a defense, just said it was an accidental drowning in the family pool and that the father didn't see anything. Came outside and found his son floating in the pool. Signs of a struggle though, going by the autopsy. Bruising on the wrists, suggestion of clawing at the attacker on the nails, haemorrhaging in the lungs from struggling. Open and shut as far as the police involvement went."

"Are there pictures? Show me the pictures!" Sherlock shouted as he jumped up a bit in his sit, knocking over a stack of read files as he went.

"What are you on about? Moran barely touched this one," the doctor pointed out as he dutifully passed over the stack of photos from the crime scene, which were mostly of the child and the pool itself though a few were taken of the father for the sake of documenting the clothes he was found in.

"Cooper Hallohan. Single father to Oliver age seven, banker, widow hmm no divorcee. Unusal for men to get parental rights in a custody case, so the mother probably gave them up. A kid no one wanted drowns. Are there any pictures of the mother?"

"No, why would there be. They were divorced like you said, she hadn't been living with them anymore. Why's that matter?"

"Because she killed her son. I find I'd like to know why, don't you?" Sherlock announced calmly but one look at his eyes showed all the giddy excitement of finding the puzzle piece that had been stuck under the couch that everyone else had missed when putting the picture together.

"How could you possibly know that? You looked at maybe five _picutres_ of the scene."

"Three pictures, which was more than enough. The bruises on the wrist look a bit small to have been from Cooper's hands. Not to mention he hasn't got any scratch marks on his arms. Seems unlikely he could hold his son under the water by the wrists without getting a scratch, especially if the boy's hands were a mess when they pulled him out," Sherlock explained rather quickly, pulling his phone out to text Lestrade.

"So you're going to get Greg to call the mother in?"

"She's the most likely suspect, probably suffering from depression which ended her marriage but she could have easily picked Oliver as a convenient excuse instead."

"Oh," John replied dumbly. Sherlock remained determined to care for John straight through even moments like that.

"Better get Lestrade to find Cooper's brother too, he's who would have gone after Moran for dropping the case so quickly."

"You know-,"

"Probably."

John scowled.

"What I was trying to say wa-,"

"Yes John, I said it would be someone related to a victim looking for justice. Cooper is the victim, don't you see? He's innocent even if he's been treated as the criminal."

"The criminal's family and the victim's family were the same thing the whole time?"

"Neat."

**John's P.O.V**

As the sound of sirens grew less and less faint, John was filled with a curious certainty that yes, this was entirely his fault.

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

"What do you mean you can't find him?" Sherlock snarled, working up his best glare on _Greg_, if that was even his real name.

"I mean that Calvin Hallohan hasn't been to work in three days, no one was in his apartment when we searched it, and his girlfriend can't reach him. We're assuming he's on the run, for now," the equally frustrated sounding D.I explained, not backing down an inch from the consulting detective looming over him.

_God how can he stand it, all the things his tiny mind can't work out. I should look into the possibility of brain tumour when this is done._

"Fine, fine. What do we know?"

"Alicia Harris, former Mrs. Hallohan, confessed to the murder once we got her in an interrogation room. But I don't think anything's going to come from it, she'll plead insanity."

"Of course, and people are usually quick to assume killing kids makes you insane."

"Usually yeah."

"At least we know they weren't working together, Calvin wouldn't have kept in contact if he was questioning his nephew's death, no doubt he suspected the boy's mother. What have your people managed to scrape together on Calvin."

"Assistant manager at a Tesco's, only family is his brother, girlfriend who says they've been going through a rough patch ever since the trial. Apparently all Calvin did was drink in pubs and tell everyone his brother was a saint who wouldn't hurt a fly. Not exactly leading us anywhere, is he."

"Brilliant Lestrade."

"What? Really?,"

"Yes, brilliant impression on an idiot."

"Sherlock, ease off eh?," John interjected wearily, apparently waiting for the moment when he'd be forced to tear the two different detectives apart.

"He's given us plenty John," Sherlock whined, pouting a bit at John for ruining what would have been a perfectly good sulk.

"Well then, feel free to share with the rest of the class," the doctor replied with just a hint of a smile, meaning he was well aware that he'd ruined Sherlock's bad mood.

The world's only consulting detective huffed a great put upon sigh.

"He works a minimum wage job and has a girlfriend stupid enough to think the relationship was just on the rocks for the better part of a year, so he's probably not smart enough to actually run. Just smart enough to hide out for a bit. And we know the only place he likes to hang out is the pub. So, smart enough to hide, won't turn up at his usual watering hole. Not smart enough to avoid pubs all together. We just need to search the area within twenty five kilometres to his apartment for popular establishments," he explained as he paced over to the hooks for both his and John's coats.

"Your plan is to just find him and bring him in then?," John asked, sounding sceptical.

"Of course," the detective told him, trying to hide the confusion he felt at John questioning their usual method of obtaining a new criminal.

"It's just we know the guy's staged one murder already, why don't we let the Yard handle it?"

"Because the Yard can't handle anything on their own!," Sherlock yelled, frustrated with John's lack of focus on the case. It was nothing new, chasing after suspects at a moment's notice.

In fact, this whole conversation was pointless. A waste of time. Sherlock did not hesitate again when putting on his long coat.

"So you're going to ignore everything I say and do it any way?"

"I'm not ignoring it, I'm rather hoping you'll change your mind and come along."

"The case is already solved, you don't need to fetch every lowlife personally."

"The case isn't over until the suspect is in custody. I'll do what I have to in order to ensure that."

"Fine, you don't have to do this, but fine. Have fun crawling through pubs all night."

"You aren't coming then."

"No, they don't need me to catch him. I have a little more faith in Lestrade's team than that. Enjoy yourself by all means," John told him with a bit of an eye roll before sitting on the couch as if to solidify his decision.

"I'll see you later on then," Sherlock told him curtly, wrapping his scarf around his neck before heading for the door.

"I suppose you will."

**John's P.O.V**

It took half an hour, twenty seven minutes to be more precise, for John to finally admit defeat and text Lestrade to ask where the mad detective was so they could meet up. John kept busying by praying that he wouldn't hate himself forever because of twenty seven minutes. It's what he was thinking about when he thought he might have felt Greg pulling at his arm. He was vaguely aware that someone kept saying that it was their fault. Kept repeating over and over

_I did it, I did it, I did it._

John realized some time later that it might have been his voice he was hearing.

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

It had been easy.

He spilt up the circle radius around Hallohans apartment between the men Lestrade at managed to get to come in in the middle of the night and quickly sent them on their way.

He'd kept the most likely area, closer to the middle of the search area since he figured Calvin wasn't likely to want to go too far out his way but in the complete opposite direction of Hallohan's usual bar. People always did tend to over compensate.

It had only taken three other pubs before Sherlock found him smoking outside the fourth one.

"He didn't smoke, you know," Sherlock said calmly.

"What was that? Do I know you mate?"

"I said he didn't smoke. No yellowing on his fingers, I checked. I wasn't sure if you knew that or not. I find not everyone needs to know everything quite like I do."

"Seriously, what are you on about?"

"There was a cigarette butt, didn't match anyone in the system though. You smoke, he didn't. Moran. He didn't smoke," was the explaination given a moment before Calvin Hallohan's eyes grew wide and he bolted down the alley. Another cigarette forgotten on the pavement.

It had been easy.

Sherlock knew the streets of London better than anybody. Hell, he had dead ends memorized and side streets etched into his mind just as good as a map. He knew the alley they were chasing each other down ended after the next left turn and then there would be no where left to hide.

He should have seen the knife coming. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

_Switchblade, 4 inches no 101.6 millimetres. Give or take a few millimetres to account for any odd angles the blade might have taken on the way in. Stab wounds are measured to the nearest millimetre, had to be accurate. Lower abdomen, didn't hurt which was probably a bit not good. Bleeding, about a half of a pint so far but it's hard to tell with blurred vision._

Sherlock lost his train of thought on measuring the blood pool when he fell to his knees rather unexpectedly. Which was a shame because he messed up the blood pool and now he would only be able to hazard a guess at the blood loss. He hated not knowing for certain.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he heard from somewhere over top of him, Sherlock couldn't be bother to look around at the moment.

"He never said what to do when they came looking. I didn't mean to, you know. I only meant to go after Moran and he paid me to do it so I figured why not. But he didn't say anything about people snooping around. Fuck," Calvin Hallohan muttered, Sherlock's eyes snapping to the figure above him at the first mention of the other man being paid to take care of Moran.

It was not the first murderer he'd met who had found a way to cash out on killings.

"Who paid you?" he tried to demand, but instantly winced at the pain his usual sharp movements caused. As further proof of the existence of no greater power from up above, Sherlock never got an answer. All Calvin seemed to be able to say after that from the spot against the wall he had curled against was how it had all been for his brother, always for his brother. Which was stupid because Sherlock already knew that. He felt fine about no longer listening at least. Resting his eyes until someone found him was much more appealing. Perhaps John was right about needing to sleep more, he certainly felt tired now.

It was some time later that he heard rapidly approaching footsteps. One set came towards him, the other rushing over to Hallohan. It could have been only a few minutes or a few hours. Sherlock couldn't really remember. But he tried to smile when the familiar feeling of too-warm hands gripped onto his shoulders.

_Ah, John, good. I was wondering where you'd gotten to._

"It's alright Sherlock, just stay with me. It's going to be fine, it's all going to be fine."

The world's only consulting detective thought he might have nodded but perhaps he'd only thought about nodding. Of course he'd stay with John, always with John. No place better.

When he felt the strange light-headedness crash over him in another wave, causing his eyelids to begin to flicker shut again, he prayed John wouldn't be too angry with him.

He wanted to explain that he would like very much to stay with John until they were nothing but two piles of dust. He wanted to explain that he hoped someone would have the good sense to mix those piles of dust together when they swept it up so that Sherlock could be made up of half John. He wanted to explain that Hallohan had confessed. He wanted to explain that the young nephew being murdered must be the reason behind the childish poem left at the scene. He wanted to explain that strange gut feeling he had that a cup of tea would have made this go away, would John please go get him one? He wanted to explain that he didn't need John telling him he was fine, he knew his blood pressure was dropping and the increased heart rate made him classify himself as at least a class three haemorrhage. He wanted to explain how wonderful it was that John was there, it was as if the doctor knew Sherlock had always hoped to have the other man right there at the end.

He desperately wanted to explain how this was all his fault but would John please forgive him any way just this once.

**Authors Note**: I hope you don't hate me forever for that, sincerest apologies. I have been wondering how people would like for me to split this story up, as it is a series. I have been debating between doing the parts following the case (which would mean more, smaller chunks i think) or by following the boys relationship (which would obviously mean the opposite - longer parts with more chapters but less of them). Please let me know what you think, about that and the chapter itself!


	8. Monitors

**Authors Note: This is just a mini update that goes along with the last chapter, expect a full update sometime this weekend!**

**John's P.O.V**

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"There's nothing else you can do."

"Yeah, I'd noticed that."

"You should go home, get some rest."

"Unless you're going to get security to force me out of this room, I'm not going anywhere Mycroft. Now go away, we both know you'll upset him when he wakes up."

"He might n-,"

"I said go away."

"As you wish. "

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

How was that sound so loud? John was going to go deaf with that blasted machine blaring in his ears 24/7. Imagine, Sherlock waking up and not being able to hear the man's wonderful voice.

No, John wouldn't imagine not being able to hear Sherlock's voice ever again. Even as a result of hearing loss, the idea hit a little too close to home at the moment.

Sherlock was just busy sleeping. That's what the good doctor was telling himself. The other man didn't do it nearly enough, so John would let him sleep. John would sit with the fog horn of a heart monitor and let Sherlock Holmes catch up on his beauty sleep.

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Look Sherlock…I… I just need you to open your eyes. A tiny bit that's all, could you do that for me?"

….

"Alright, that's fine. You're right, it's asking a bit much. Could you squeeze my hand? Gently is okay."

…

"Asking you to lift one finger isn't much. Come now, don't you owe me one finger? Think of all the fingers I've let you have."

…

"Listening up Sherlock Holmes, I need you to move. Move anything. Move that sodding annoying mouth of yours, tell me it's stupid to sit in a plastic hospital chair with my shoulder acting up. Point out that coffee stain from this morning and that I can't sleep with you like this. Just do it. Move. Talk. Wake Up."

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Doctors make the worst patients. This might not always be true but it was in the case of one John Hamish Watson. To be fair, he figured he had more than enough reasons for hating hospitals. Working in the surgery was different. Helping parents with sick toddlers didn't remind him quite as badly as ugly white walls did. Didn't remind him of the prickling fever of infection crawling over his skin from a bullet that was still lodged in his shoulder. Didn't remind him of the number of A/E trips for broken ribs, wrists, concussions and the like that resulted from all the cases. No, the surgery did not remind him of the life Sherlock Holmes led. Like sugar on the edge of knife, running his tongue along the blade to taste the sweetness without noticing the metallic taste of blood mixing in. Dr. Watson hated hospitals. Because when you're with Sherlock, you don't just see a hospital full of sick people. You see the battlefield. And John knows the battlefield. He knows what you can lose in it.

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _

"You're wearing one of those ridiculous gowns you know, standard issue."

…

"Backwards butt robes you called them once, one of the times you got yourself drugged and I had to haul you here. "

…

"I haven't let anyone take a picture of it yet, so you should be thankful for that."

…

"If you don't wake up soon though, I might. I don't think Anderson would even know what to do with himself."

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

John thought he might claw his own eyes out soon. No, that wasn't creative enough. That wasn't doing his current situation justice. John Watson would extract his eyeballs meticulously with a pair of dull chopsticks if it meant he wouldn't have to see the same scene in front of him again.

Private room, single bed, crisp overly starched sheets, messy black hair like a sort of deranged halo, skin that had reached a sickly pale shade, deep bruises under both eyes, everything still.

"Who gave you permission to look so tiny? You aren't allowed to get tiny Sherlock," he whispered to the unmoving man, in the unmoving bed, in the unmoving room, in the unmoving scene.

_Who said you could look vulnerable?_ he thought

"Do not get any smaller, alright? You can't go fading away on me. I forbid you," the doctor snipped at him, instantly regretting not keeping his tone soothing. Soothing tones were meant to help.

"Do not leave me behind Sherlock. Don't you dare."

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

John heard that noise every time he blinked. John heard that noise when he tried to curl up in the chair and sleep. John dreamed about that sound. Heart monitor ticking out the beat of the one organ Sherlock Holmes had tried so desperately to deny having. The good doctor found it to be both the most terrible sound in the universe for fear it was doing nothing but feeding him false hope, and the most amazing feeling in the world to know that the great man lying in front of him had not been taken from him. Not entirely.

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

"Lestrade came by today. Wanted me to go back to the flat, I told him to piss off. Remind me to apologize later. They got a confession out of Hallohan. Bet you would have hated that, them closing the case without you. That's just what you get when you make such a big fuss like this. It's your own fault."

…

"I didn't mean that, you know that right? God- I didn't."John whispered into the suffocating silence.

…

"This isn't your fault, of course not. It's alright, I knew you were an idiot from day one remember? You never could resist, you must have the worst survival instincts of all time."

…

"You could make it up to me, you know. You could show them that you're still in there. Let Lestrade know how hopeless he'd be without you, tell Anderson that his new tie makes him look even more rat faced as if it were possible. Then we'd be even."

…

"Would you do that?"

…

"For me Sherlock, just stop it."

…

"Stop this."

* * *

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

**Authors Note:Please let me know what you think, this was a bit different I know**


	9. Instant Vanilla

**Authors Note: I've decided to use the boy's relationship as the guide for this story, it seems less choppy than using the cases. So, look forward to that and happy reading!**

**John's P.O.V**

There was nothing in the sky.

John stared up at it and was filled with an instantaneous hatred for all the molecules up there that were mocking him down below.

There was nothing in the sky. It was a clear, pale blue. A vast expanse of smooth nothingness. It gave the whole landscape a fuzzy, not quite real feeling. Because he thought that sky was rather too nice for a day like this.

The universe ought to have known that his situation called for hurricane force winds and tidal waves crashing down to wipe out everything familiar to the good doctor. He wanted the rest of the world to acknowledge that there was no use for the sun anymore, that it was hateful to keep up the charade of warmth he was meant to feel as the rays pierced his skin.

Instead, John Watson allowed himself to be consumed by hatred. He focused on that as the people around him became nothing but a murmur in the back of his mind.

He fancied that the sky looked dead. Everything did. Dead skies, dead trees, dead ground and no birds singing around the procession of people.

Dead.

"John?"

_Ah, right. That was him. _

Some unknown hand connected to an unknown body was giving him a handful of dirt.

_What a strange thing to do_ he thought, but accepted what was offered automatically. Holding on to the moist bit of earth and stared down at it without moving.

"You've got to drop it down," one of the hovering figures reminded him.

John gave a curt nod, and helplessly observed each of his fingers uncurling to watch the clumps of soil fall with tiny soft thumps against incredibly expensive looking polished wood.

He didn't make another sound while more words and passages were washed over him as if they were the balm to heal his wounds. John didn't make a sound and he didn't shed a tear. Trying to look around and see if any of the other blobs were crying was pointless. They were all faded and far away. He focused down on his hands again. Noted the bit of dirt caked under his finger nails. Did not note that the crowd of blurry maybe-people was starting to disperse.

There had been more of them than John had anticipated. Perhaps all the good they'd done over the precious little time given to them was enough of a reason for people to turn up. Paying respects did not always mean you were obligated to care. It did not mean you were forced to let the rest of your world go muddled and smeared. Most people could show up, tut a little about the whole situation, and then turn to leave. Happy to head back home and continue on. John Watson was not one of those people. He could not turn and go. His feet were cemented to this very specific patch of grass. Here would be where he'd stay until things made sense again.

It didn't seem possible to shake the thought that a bit of rain would have done the trick, would be all he needed to wrap his mind around the sight in front of him. Polished, beautiful grey stone. Impressive without looking like it was trying to be. John hated it too. Hated it for looking like it belonged there, like it was meant to be plucked down amoung all the others. The idea of smashing the carefully crafted bit of rock slipped into his head and John found it rather lingered. It was the first thing he'd felt like doing in days.

"Don't you think it's time to be getting back," came an insufferably calm, overly posh voice from somewhere behind John.

_No_ he thought but didn't bother to say.

"You can't stay here John, surely you've realized how fool hardy that idea is."

_I do not care. I'm staying_ his mind screamed.

"There's nothing else you could have done," the voice told him in what John felt was too reasonable a tone, too practiced an indifference. The voice sounded almost unaffected by what lay before them, to the image that had a vice grip on the air in John's lungs.

"You're wrong," the doctored stated icily, never looking back to see how the voice reacted to the break in his silence. It was just a voice after all, John did not care how it felt.

"Very well then."

And he was finally left alone.

"You're wrong," he repeated to the freshly emptied space. Predictably, John received no response.

"I could have done more," added in a softer voice, barely above a whisper. Still, the universe ignored him.

"I could have been braver, for you. I could have told you that first night how dazzling I thought you were. That it was like watching someone made of those popping candies I liked when I was younger. I could have done that for you."

John briefly thought that he was rather getting use to overlooking the obvious gaps in his conversations which served to remind him that there was simply no one there to fill them.

"I could have gone with you, I could have helped. Told you to slow down for god's sake. I should have," he continued, voice breaking for the first time that day on the end of his sentence.

John corrected himself quickly. There was no getting use to those gaps.

"I could have loved you…" felt the beginnings of tears prick behind his eyes and was fast to cover his face with his hands.

"Someone should have. God, someone should have. You needed it so desperately and no one ever noticed. You were so wonderful and amazing and unbelievable. Someone should have loved you to bits every day for it," John said with absolute certainty in his words.

"I could have…I think I might have already. I'm not sure, I think I might have. But I definitely could have. If you had let me. I'd have loved you to bits and then loved those bits to bits. If you'd given me the chance, I'd…" no, he did not want to finish that thought. It only hurt to think about that future which no longer existed.

"You never gave me the chance," he finished plainly, wiping the few tears from his cheeks before removing his hands to look resolutely at what stood on the ground in front of him. The stance of a soldier.

"I hate you."

Nothing.

"I hate you."

Silence.

"I hate you!"

A sharp pain in the back of his throat from the sudden force. Then silence and nothing together.

And he was overwhelmed. Hating and loving with every fibre in his body. Hating being left with this. Loving everything he no longer had. Hating that he would not get to love. Hating that he loved at all.

All the while the writing on the lovely and terrible stone screamed back at him, demanding that it no longer be ignored as had been John's plan all day.

_**Sherlock Holmes**_ written in simple bold black letters that seared into the back of his eyes.

* * *

John was jerked awake, shaken harshly, by Lestrade's rough hands. He'd been screaming and his whole body was drenched in sweat. If anyone had asked him what the D.I had said, he would not have been able to say with any certainty that the man had so much as used a noun let alone give anything of meaning or importance.

Two days later, Sherlock had the good grace to twitch a single baby finger.

* * *

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

Everything felt like pudding.

It might have been the most ridiculous thought to ever be formed by the great mind of Sherlock Holmes but it was the first which popped up once that great mind was capable of such a thing again.

_Instant vanilla_ he thought.

"Sherlock! Did you- did you just say something? What's vanilla?" came that beautiful, warm, foolish voice from somewhere in the thick cloud that the detectives body was floating in.

Then the strange almost-familiar exhaustion collapsed on him again, making Sherlock forget all about the monologue on why he preferred butterscotch actually.

_Oh, John._

* * *

The next time his brain clicked back online, Sherlock became aware again of all his parts. Of the too long limbs he'd learned to control to the point of shamming effortlessness, of the itchy fabric covering his lean chest, of the crusty eyelids which felt glued together when the detective realized with a start how badly he wished to observe hiss surroundings. To see his John again.

He attempted to blink but was met with nothing but a blinding flash of white. It hurt. This seeing things again, it hurt. Perhaps this was what other people felt when he pointed out the details they'd missed. Sherlock could almost understand. Was almost empathetic. But then he tried to blink again because he was not one of those other people. Sherlock Holmes was not scared of things that hurt.. He would let the hurt do what it was meant to but it would not stop him.

The room came into semi-focus. Blank walls, blank white blankets swaddling him, dreary florescent lights overhead.

Dull.

Except for the shape of what simply had to be an ex-army doctor. Had to be His John. Sitting in one of those chairs which never seemed to have been made with the idea of whoever was currently sitting in them in mind. A strange sort of changing discomfort. John should not be sitting in it. The stupid man. Sherlock felt a flush of fury at the good doctor, wanting for a moment to find a suitable punishment for ignoring things as precious to Sherlock as the bullet wound in the other man's shoulder. Perhaps throwing away the flat's entire supply of jam would be sufficient. Serves John right.

"God your eyes. I can tell you're up to no good, but you've no idea how much I've wanted to see you looking completely mad with your eyes again," John told him, in a slightly shakey voice.

Sherlock blinked several times to try and see John more clearly, feeling his eyes water from all the sudden movement. The good doctor looked worn out. Like that hideous oatmeal jumper, all rumpled lines and washed out colour. Just waiting for some kind, caring, considerate citizen to accidentally drop a bit of hydrochloric acid on him to put John out of his misery too.

"Stop looking like jumpers!," he tried his best to demand, but it came out in hoarse voice which more resembled a kitten trying to convince someone that it was in fact a lion did they not just hear that roar? It was undignified and the detective resolved to delete the memory at the next opportunity. The whole experience left Sherlock's throat feeling as if he'd lined the whole thing with thorns sometime in his sleep and forgotten about it until just then.

He tried to glare at John but even that hurt his face.

"Right, yeah sorry. Here, ice chips- nice and slow. Hard to remember that some who can go around telling me not to look like my clothes needs something as boring as water."

Had he had the energy, Sherlock would have protested to being treated like an exotic house plant.

Instead he opened his mouth in what he had hoped was a _give me sustenance, I can't be bothered to move my limbs_ sort of way. John rolled his eyes rather obscenely, in the detective's opinion, so the message must have been received.

"Do not get use to this, I'm not feeding you grapes when we get back to the flat," the doctor muttered in an annoyed tone but was smiling the whole time he said it while plunking one cold cube into Sherlock's mouth.

The relief was indescribable, the taller man hadn't even realized how desperately he needed the cool trickle of water until he'd been given it.

As if on cue, the rest of his long lean body took the opportunity to ache all over. Stiff muscles, sensitive skin and a particularly persistent twinge of sharper pain rooted just below his chest. A quick trip to the Mind Palace served to remind him of a flash of steel and all the things John would have been left not knowing if Sherlock wasn't laying in pain in a hospital bed now. There wasn't much data on how the detective had managed to end up there, in fact there wasn't much data after John had shown up in the alley at all.

"How?," he asked in a gentle whisper waving a hand vaguely around the room for a second before giving up the action as too much effort. Choosing not to elaborate or shout again in hopes of avoiding the barbed wire inside his neck. Sherlock decided to hold on to his belief that John would understand. Should the man take a few extra minutes to work out the details, Sherlock would simply gaze fondly at the good doctor who he would definitely not trade in for the skull. Of course not.

"You lost a lot of blood, it was a rather deep wound and Hallohan jerked the blade a bit when he pulled it out," John explained in a more steady voice, listing off details the way Sherlock preferred. Other people might have tried to avoid describing the scene or saying the man's name in front of the victim. John Watson knew better. The last time he had tried to shy away from using the name of a serial killer, Sherlock had nearly bit his head off while informing John that he wasn't an eleven year old orphan going off to learn magic so would he please stop acting as if the murderer's name mattered.

John had been so startled by the cultural reference he had two and a half extra cups of tea that day before deciding to never sugar coat something for the world's only consulting detective ever again.

"So we had to deal with that, he nicked your stomach which made a mess of everything in surgery I'm told. Infectious materials in the abdominal cavity so you'll be on some pretty strong antibiotics for a while, and so help me you'll take everything last one without even thinking about complaining," the tone was stern but the shorter man's eyes were filled with a fondness which made Sherlock remember that he still needed to complete that experiment to find the antidote to that funny feeling John looking at him like that made in his stomach.

It wasn't as if Sherlock couldn't see plain as day the lingering sadness in John's features. He must have been unconscious for a number of days for John to look that distraught. He found he didn't have the heart to ask.

_I wanted to go first, not leave you behind_ the detective thought solemnly, weak fingers brushing up against warm warm warm tanned ones. Just a bit of starlight for today, he had missed it so. That was fair.

"Oh, and they took out your appendix. Figures the only way we'd find out it was inflamed was having you operated on for something else. Ah well, we'll have to have a funeral for it later," John finished with the most genuine smile he had managed so far, grasping on to Sherlock's hand as if it was the last carton of milk in the flat. If the detective had been made of weaker stuff, his heart would have melted as that was surely one of the nicest sentiments John had ever given him.

"You wanted to have a funeral for my appendix?" Sherlock asked in a curious voice, silently thrilled with His John. How lucky he was to have found someone made of stars who had a proper appreciation for body parts under the right circumstances.

"Well yeah, it's a piece of you isn't it? Bit rude of you to expect me to just let it go like that," the good doctor explained with a mock pout. Mock pouts were up there with Watson sighs, they both deserved a hearty scowl.

"I've had my tonsils out too, shall we just dig one mass grave?"

"God, look at you. Trying to ruin today for me. Won't work you know."

"A for effort perhaps?" Sherlock croaked out.

"I'll give you that I suppose."

"Thank you John, your pity knows no bounds."

* * *

**John's P.O.V**

The following week became the single hardest one of John Watson's entire life. Okay, second hardest since the days spent waiting for Sherlock to wake up had been only a couple less than a week so that time ought to be in the running. But still, the week beat out getting shot in Afghanistan for god sake. Which probably should have concerned John more than it did. Watching the great Sherlock Holmes hobbling around in a hospital gown just ate at him though. Like a bunch of termites lost in his right atrium and left ventricle. The other man was meant to be swooping around dramatically and sneaking up on people like a deranged cat. John would have preferred getting shot all over again or taking the blade of that knife himself to watching the detective struggle. So yes, perhaps such lack of self-preservation should concern him more. It didn't but only because the good doctor was studiously ignoring that fact.

Had been since that dream. Or maybe before that. Since waking up contentedly beside a lunatic. Since pinning said mad man to the floor to get him to simply listen. Since the eccentric detective had said stay and all John Watson's brain had done was think _oh bloody hell_ before once again doing exactly as Sherlock Holmes had asked. Really, John would be hard pressed to figure out exactly when he had become so dreadfully in love with the taller brunette. But he had had the decency to do it quietly, so thank god for small miracles.

As soon as they were away from this hospital, with all the cheeriness of a funeral home, John would sort out what he would do. What he ought to tell the world's only consulting detective. Would a simple heads up suffice? A good ole fashion _Hey, I'm in love with you by the way. Pass the jam please- no that's marmalade again_ do the trick? Would it send Sherlock into another tizzy trying to wade through another ocean of feelings? John couldn't know, the reactions from the other man were never predictable.

It made sense that that thought occurred to him at the exact moment an ice chip gracefully smacked him in the forehead.

"If you make that face one more time, I'll be forced to murder you in your sleep as soon as I get my strength back."

"Ta, that would save me the trouble of killing you for throwing ice at me. What face?" John shot back. He didn't sound nearly as angry as he might have been had Sherlock not been laying on those white sheets he deemed completely plebeian and beneath him.

"The one where you look like you've swallowed a mouthful of bees and someone hit you on the head with a lead pipe at the same time. It's rather off putting. I am rather busy recovering you know"

"Sorry, I was just thinking."

"Oh, is that what that looks like?"

"Shut it you git."

* * *

"Why do you need to speak with John? He's busy, I'm teaching him proper bedside manner Lestrade."

"And I keep telling you that bedside manner does not mean I need to be lying beside you in a rickety hospital bed 24/7," John pointed out with an amused smile before getting up to follow the D.I out into the hall.

"Fine then John, far be it for me to try and shape you up into a decent doctor. I'll try to keep my wasting away to a dull roar shall I?"

"Please see that you do," John mock agreed with a nod, trying not to look too pleased with Sherlock's clinginess. He was crediting boredom from confinement as the source.

Still, he felt a twinge of guilt when he closed the room's door behind him.

"Look John, I know this is the last thing you want to talk about right now but I'm running out of options," Greg told him in a urgent whispered voice, in case the hospital walls were thinner than imagined.

"You know how he'll get if I tell him. He needs to rest, he almost died Lestrade," John reminded him tersely, crossing his arms over his chest. Bristling like a dog would to a stranger getting too close to his master. Best not to connect thoughts like that with Sherlock in the future.

"Yeah, yeah I know he'll bloody well tear himself apart," Greg conceded as he slumped his shoulders in disappointment. This did nothing to dampen John's spirits of having forced the D.I away again.

"Will you tell him? When you think it'll be okay? I honestly don't know what we're dealing with," the other man admitted in the same quiet voice but the good doctor suspected this had less to do with sound carrying than with the D.I's pride.

"Of course, even I won't be able to keep him at bay forever."

"If anyone could, it'd be you John."

That may or may not have been the best compliment John had ever received. It would certainly be hard to top.

* * *

"I will hack that nurse to pieces with nothing but this plastic spoon and bendy straw if she brings one more cup of that rubbish."

"People like Jell-o Sherlock, all the patients get it."

"I am not people John, I will not be subjected to lemon-lime gelatin cubes any longer."

"I'll tell them you'd prefer biscuits but you aren't going to get discharged for another week."

"Fine, remember how difficult you're being when I'm incarcerated for murdering hospital staff."

"Please, if you were going to kill any of them I'm sure you'd be interesting enough not to get caught."

"Right you are John."

* * *

"There's something you're not telling me."

"It'll be at least three more weeks, bed rest without leaping off a single roof."

"Yes, I heard you the first time. God, I hate repetition."

"How is it possible I even missed you griping like that?"

"Witchcraft, now tell me what it really is already."

"Promise to listen to doctor's orders."

"Yes, alright fine. Spill."

"There's been another one."

**Authors Note: Reviews/comments are always welcome! There will be another update in about a week, though I was wondering whether people liked the shorter update in between?**


	10. Plotting and Waistcoats

**Authors Note: I do apologize for no mini update this week, this chapter just got away from me and I started a new story(!) if you were interested in where my brain power went. However, I hope you do enjoy this!**

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

Another one.

_How was that possible? Wasn't Hallohan, had to be whoever had paid him then. That bit was obvious. What wasn't was who had paid him. Was it the name he hadn't told John? Perhaps he should mention something. But why use Hallohan? Who had the sponsor used this time? What was the pattern? The reason? How was that possible? How? Data. Need to find data if he was going to solve a puzzle. A puzzle._

Fantastic.

Brilliant.

Neat.

"Oh, really?" he asked in his very best _I could not be less interested in the events of your dreary existence, do shut up John_ voice.

"Yes, really. And that's not going to work Sherlock."

"What isn't?,"soft green eyes asked innocently, picking at an invisible piece of lint on one of the horrid excuses for a blanket the hospital had given him.

"You, pretending you don't care about a case. You always care about cases. I've been bracing myself for when you leave a Valentine's card at a crime scene in February. " John told him with a hint of a tired smile, looking as if Sherlock's acting was on par with a first graders spring play. Insulting in the highest degree.

"Well, I'll have you know I'm much too focused on my health to be bothered with trivia like murders and nursery rhymes," the detective countered with a sniff, looking as dignified as one could manage in a backwards butt robe.

John had burst out laughing for a full seven minutes, 37 seconds before he was able to contain himself. Sherlock had counted the time and narrowed his eyes at his flatmate who was obviously becoming more cracked from all the extra Sherlock-exposure of late. It was the only explanation.

""Sherlock, I'm sure you'd cut off all your limbs and maybe even a few of mine for a 'proper serial killer doing something interesting for once'," the good doctor told him, dropping his voice and using an exaggerated accent at the end of the sentence in what was apparently meant to be an impression of Sherlock Holmes himself.

The detective took back ever thinking that John was funny.

"I might not be a genius but I'm not that stupid. No case details. Three weeks. Doctor's orders Sherlock, you promised."

When had he allowed John to get so clever?

Sherlock scowled deeply as he turned away from John to bury his head in his pillow in frustration. He had a rant about the unjust action of holding a person to a promise made without all the pertinent data lined up on the tip of his tongue when a different thought blossomed in his head. Setting off a wicked grin on his lips which Sherlock was pleased as punch John couldn't see, what luck. What he realized was that John, of course, was not a genius just as the man himself had said. Annoyingly well-versed in mad detective perhaps but no genius. Sherlock Holmes, however, was frightfully brilliant and most certainly of genius status. Therefore, what he had to do was obvious. He would simply trick John into telling him all the important facts. One ex-army doctor was small potatoes for a brain such as his after all.

* * *

Perhaps his first course of action was too obvious. It wasn't easy to tell with John. Sometimes he saw right through the taller man and at others Sherlock was filled with glee at having fooled the good doctor once again. John Watson was a mystery and one of the few which could make Sherlock Holmes risk being too obvious.

_Foolish eyes and caring. I did warn you._

"You do realize how dangerous not telling me is, don't you John?," the detective said after waiting two hours, 24 minutes to ask in a solemn voice.

"I think I can manage to keep you alive when I've got you confined to a bed, it's almost like a vacation," John replied with that warm smile which caused the wing flapping in Sherlock's stomach, wholly disproving the theory that a rogue appendix had been to blame for the sensation. Apparently it was something else caused only by the face of a good doctor. Still, Sherlock frowned deeply.

_You're doing that thing again. Deliberately obtuse. It doesn't suit that three centimetre scar under your right ear, not one bit_ he thought.

"If ever there was a time for that lead pipe-honey bee look, this would be it," he drawled, gesturing to John's face as if the other man's expression would fill with intense thought simply because Sherlock wished it so. Alas, dare to dream.

All he received was a confused, somewhat annoyed scowl.

"Not me, of course I'll be fine- haven't I been suffering through that scratching sound these sheets make when I so much as wiggle a toe silently? No, other people John. Dangerous for other people," Sherlock explained, in his best serious tone which involved lowering his voice further than normal. He did not pretend to not notice how this affected John. An interesting side effect to study later perhaps.

"Other people? How on earth are you going to manage to hurt other people laying around like that," the doctor asked, though to his credit John did not look as though he believed this to be impossible. He merely looked as though he was waiting for Sherlock to give a legitimate explanation so that he could nod and say that sounds about right.

Endearing a quality as ever, but the man was still being so slow on the uptake that Sherlock found himself wondering which of them he'd choose if he managed to find a lovely skeleton to go with the Skull.

"Murdered, John. People will be murdered, it's the kind of thing that happens when you don't actively pursue a killer."

_Ah, there it is. Finally. My clever John, I was beginning to wonder where you'd went. _

John pursed his precious, lovely, stop using them to look like that lips. "The police are investigating it, I'm sure the professionals can handle it themselves while you're in the hospital."

Sherlock scoffed almost instinctually.

"The police can't handle anything," he defended adamantly, unable to keep his eager desire for answers at bay. Perhaps it had been a bit of a whine. The world's only consulting detective would never admit to such a thing.

"This conversation feels very familiar, tell me how did it go last time?" John asked sarcastically, giving Sherlock a look that made the detective feel as if he should question the genius title he'd given himself earlier.

He chose to remain silent. John couldn't get a checkmate if Sherlock stopped playing.

"In fact, could you remind me whether it was you or the police I found bleeding to death in an alley recently. I can't seem to remember," the blonde added in much the same way.

Sherlock stood corrected, apparently chess is a game John Watson could easily play alone.

* * *

The case was put on hold for a grand total of 28 hours when Sherlock was happily discharged into the care of a certain ex-army doctor. He had found it difficult to focus on being cross or trying to chip away at John's resolve when the other man brought him enough tea to satisfy the Queen herself. Sherlock fancied that perhaps a stronger man than he could have resisted the attentions of a doctor with a rather spectacular new freckle on the underside of his chin and a mother-hen complex. Still, it had only been 28 hours and Mr. Holmes had decided that was as much a grace period as John ought to have hoped for.

It had started innocently enough, in fact it might have been John's fault.

Yes, now that he thought about it, Sherlock was sure the good doctor had no one to blame but himself.

"What do you want for lunch?" John asked him in that _I was an army doctor who had bad days_ voice that both brooked no argument and made Sherlock want to take John's larynx out for just a little while so that he might dissect it more accurately.

"Hmm?"

"Lunch Sherlock, that meal around the middle of the day. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

"Of course I have."

"Well then."

"Nothing thank you, I'm not the least bit hungry," the detective informed John from the couch he had been terribly busy lazing about on. With a dressing gown wrapped tightly around him, Sherlock glared defiantly up at the doctor despite feeling around eight years old whenever he was forced to resort to actions such as that. John Watson too often left him with no other weapons for the battles they had.

"You've got to eat something."

"There is nothing I have to do," Sherlock defended, crossing his arms with very little thought.

"Doctor's orders Sherlock," the good doctor reminded him in what Sherlock sensed was more forced patience than the real thing.

"I'll make you a deal."

John sighed. Predictable, hurtful, Sherlock would confiscate those lungs if the doctor insisted on using them in such a way.

"What deal would that be?" the shorter man asked, already dreading the answer apparently.

"I'll eat whatever you like, as much of it as you like," Sherlock offered, hoping to have hooked John on the good part enough to ignore any misgivings he had about the other end of the deal.

"In exchange for what?"

"A tinsy tiny bit of data John," the consulting detective started carefully but was stopped by the raised hand of an army doctor.

"No, Sherlock. No cases until you're at less risk of spilling your guts out through those stitches," John told him fiercely. Sherlock wanted to say that such an outcome wasn't likely, but the look on John's face said that the doctor wouldn't be reassured by the fact that Sherlock would only lose blood if that happened.

"Now, I'm thinking pancakes," was the last thing the good doctor muttered before wandering back into the kitchen. The detective remained firm in his resolve for not praising how whimsical John was, breakfast for lunch indeed.

When a plate of the offending creations was forced on him, Sherlock took great care in drowning the whole pile in roughly half the bottle of maple syrup John had run down to the corner shop to buy. He was determined not to taste an ounce of the hard work the other man put into the meal.

Judging by the triumphant grin on John Hamish Watson's face, Sherlock did not get the impression that he was successful in dampening the good doctor's spirits at all.

Sherlock quickly began a mental list of all the hidden nooks in the flat in which he might make use of the rest of the bottle before him discreetly.

* * *

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Bored," he answered evenly, keeping his voice neutral.

_That's it John, keep going…_

"And the scissors are for?," the good doctor questioned and Sherlock had to resist the urge to beam at him. It was a difficult thing to supress; a star needs to know when it's shining after all.

"My hair," the detective stated calmly, though he was filled to the brim with wicked glee at the way John blanched at his words.

"Why…why do you want to cut your hair?"

"I'm bored, obviously. Hey, you're familiar with military regulation hair styles. When I'm done taking off some of the length, could you trim the rest up for me?"

"No, I won't. You're cutting your hair because you're bored?" John questioned, and Sherlock felt a bit of his happiness die at the suspicion in the good doctor's voice. There was only a hint of it though so the detective pressed on.

"Yes, I've nothing to occupy my mind so I decided to give this a whirl. I didn't think you'd mind."

"Of course I mind!" the shorter man defended, though reddened quickly whilst staring at the floor the way Sherlock stared at crime scenes.

The brunette merely quirked one elegant eyebrow at John's reaction.

"You've got nice hair is all," John mumbled to the ground, before finally looking up to search Sherlock's face.

"You love your hair though."

"I don't love pointlessly like that John, it's just hair."

"You buy the ridiculous salon shampoo just for curly hair and threatened to cut off at least three fingers if I touched it," John accused more firmly and Sherlock did nothing but huff back at him.

"If you're that bored, go ahead," the good doctor said, voice suddenly airy and uninterested which brought a scowl to Sherlock's face.

"I'm not going to trade the case for your hair either Sherlock," was added as John shut the bathroom door behind him.

So close. The detective would have to try harder.

* * *

"Mycroft! Dear brother, to what do I owe the pleasure? Have you had your tea yet?" Sherlock asked in his sweetest voice when he came into the living room to see his brother sitting overly comfortably in John's armchair.

The reaction to this greeting was a look of abject horror on John's face and a smug smile on Mycroft's which instantly made Sherlock's blood boil.

Umbrella stands, he simply must remember to get around to those umbrella stands.

"I'm not here to tell you anything Sherlock, certainly you know better than that," Mycroft told him in as joyful a voice as the politician was capable of as he took a sip of tea. The word's turned John's look of disbelief into a very angry cross one directed at the detective.

"Then why on earth are you here?" Sherlock snapped, switching the part of his brain that had been ready to butter up to his brother over to the task of how best to hide a body so it was never found. A subject he studied at great length whenever Mycroft was busy speaking.

"I merely wanted to check in on my baby brother, it's what people do after such an...indiscretion in an alley."

"You shouldn't have bothered. You were doing such a good job of being somewhere else, it was such a pleasant change. Obviously it wasn't your idea, can tell by your waistcoat. Suppose I've John to thank for that then. Now- get out of that chair and out of this flat."

Sherlock decided he would invent his very own poison one day, purely to slip down Mycroft's giant nose in hopes it would turn his brother's brain into the equivalent of a lump of grey mashed potatoes.

* * *

"Sherlock, do you know who would send _you_ flowers? All the card says is 'Sorry for letting him get so handsy!' and it's a dozen ro-….what are you doing?"

"Nothing at all," Sherlock said morosely from where he was laying starfish on the living room floor.

"You know most people enjoy the occasional day off."

Oh, how could John think now was the time to talk about those irritating _most people_ people. Sherlock hated them. All those bland smiles and polite words crawl across his skin like an army of fire ants.

"Could I borrow your stethoscope?" he asked in the same resigned tone, only bothering to shift a pair of pale grey eyes to look at John without turning his head an inch. Too much work.

"What for? It's not a toy. It's an expensive piece of equipment."

"I just wanted to use it for a minute, would have been interesting."

"What would have been?"

"Getting to listen to my heart when I die of boredom."

Cue absolutely unnecessary excessive exhale of oxygen from a certain ex-army doctor.

"You are not going to die Sherlock."

"A shame, it's so boring being stuck here all day. I think even my eyelashes are bored, I can feel it," the taller man argued with the beginnings of a pout while looking up from the worn rug had put in the flat years ago.

"Come here," John replied, hauling the detective up from the ground and flopping Sherlock down on the couch like a boneless fish. The flopping may have been the taller man's doing, though he was sure he kept it dignified.

Almost as quickly John was sitting beside him with one tan, impossibly warm arm wrapped around Sherlock's sharp shoulder blades tightly.

The detective grudgingly admitted to himself that this had a soothing effect.

"What's this all about," Sherlock asked, confusion winning out over remaining impassive to his own inevitable demise in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

"We're having a cuddle, "John informed him plainly.

"Oh, why?"

"It's the only available treatment option."

Sherlock hummed in response, his brain making the decision, without consultation, to begin cataloging how the weight distribution of John's arm over him in this position felt. It was a task that allowed for a peaceful quiet to fall over the flat.

"Mummy use to give me hugs, when I was quite young and she thought I was in a mood," Sherlock told his wonderful doctor after indulging in a few more minutes of nothing but _John_.

He smirked when John shivered.

"I still can't believe you and Mycroft didn't just pop up, ready-made just like you are. I'll need to meet the woman who managed it before I can believe you're not making that all up."

"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains –however impossible-"

"Must be true, yeah yeah I know. Doesn't make me feel better about it. You could still turn out to be an alien, not sure that's impossible yet. It really isn't decent for someone who looks like you to get to be so clever too."

* * *

Sherlock was going to fuse his body into the fabric of his bed. He was going to melt and become nothing but high thread count. His mind was a blank and it was painful.

He would give anything to make it go away. The detective had tried telly which was as mindless as he remembered, had tried the horridly stupid crossword in the paper that John hadn't finished the other morning, he even read the latest update on the blog for a third time. Nothing had helped.

A string of equations was dancing along his ears, balanced and perfected over time. A lovely 7% which would certainly do for a quick fix.

"Is this another trick?" came a soft voice came from beside the bed, starling Sherlock as he hadn't heard his precious John come in.

"What do you mean?"

"This lying in bed for a day and a half. Is it for the case?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Why should my lying in bed matter? No, I've given up on getting you to tell me John. You are senselessly stubborn, it can't be helped or reasoned with," the world's only consulting detective replied with the air of a man being sent to the gallows.

John stared back at him for a moment as if trying to decide something. Sherlock was too busy trying to think of hidden stashes Mycroft might have missed for John to be staring at the moment. It was terribly distracting, couldn't the good doctor ever leave a bad mood be?

"Just the case files."

"What?" the startled tone couldn't be helped.

"Only the files. I'll get Lestrade to bring them over but you are not allowed to leave this flat if I do. Doctor's orders."

Ah yes, this was why having one's own live-in doctor was such a wonderful thing.

**Authors Note: I hope you all liked receiving flowers just then. Till next week, possibly sooner!**


	11. Buzzing and Names

**Authors Note:Oh my goodness, I am so sorry for how long it's been since I've updated this! I got caught up in my other story and work and then life. Plus I had to seriously reconsider the plot I'd written out back in April as it was far too complicated and unrealistic I think. Hopefully an update here and two chapter for my other story will ease your way.**

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

Buzzing.

What was that buzzing?

_Is it tinnitus? No, John hasn't yelled at me recently- probably out of pity as usually he loves yelling. Can't be that, what then? The flat doesn't buzz, I know the flat. Second step on the stairs creaks as does the fifteenth if the visitor is over 14 stone. The door handle is a touch rusty and makes that horrible scratching sound but John gets mad if I just leave it open. Chair in the kitchen is wobbly, kettle whistles in a rather flat note, fridge does a dull thud when closed, shower in the bathroom has a spray that favours the left side and makes the water hit the wall more loudly, my violin only makes noise when I touch it, same with John unless he's having a nightmare which he doesn't think I can hear and which he isn't having now as I can see he's awake. What buzzes? Traffic, no metaphorical and that's a stretch in London. Bees. Bees buzz. Well, bees are capable of moving their wing muscles and thorax to collect pollen from flowers which the human hear interprets as a buzzing. Only those cut roses for flowers though, doubtful presence of bees as the bouquet obviously came from a high end shop owed by a women recently divorced with three cats one of which is sick from eating flowers all the time. How can John think with this noise? How is he unaffected? Buzz. Buzzed. Buzzing. He must hear it, as soon as he gave me the file all I've bee-_

Ah of course. Obvious really, he'd have a good laugh about how pathetically long it took him to work it out.

The buzzing was in Sherlock Holmes' head, the name attached to the manila folder in his hand causing the rest of the world to sound as though it had been plunged underwater while the detective hadn't been looking. John had been quick to run down to the Yard, getting the brunette copies of all the evidence that had been gathered from the scene. Sherlock had been pained to stay behind, muttering darkly straight up until John had come back through the door about the clear ineptitude of the officers who had no doubt missed everything of importance and not in the adorable way John Watson did. So he'd been far from prepared for what the typed up notes from Forensics had told him was the subject of the murder investigation.

_Oliver Moriarty_ in neat typed 12.5 Times New Roman.

For one of the very few times in his life, Sherlock was rendered speechless.

_What were the other times? Mycroft telling me the elderly often lost the keen edge of their minds, playing the violin for the first time, Father dying, overdose, overdose, John Watson Staying. Never because of a case, I've always got answers for the work_ A name no one says.

Yet this was the second time he was hearing it.

Not that John, or anyone at the Yard for that matter, would know. That was a secret kept only for consulting detectives. Sherlock just happened to be the only one in the world, hardly his fault no one had been clever enough to follow in his footsteps yet. It was only a teensy tiny secret; embarrassingly he hadn't put much thought into whether John Watson ought to know. Would the good doctor want to know the last word screamed by a deadman only because Sherlock forced it out of him? A deadman, it should be noted, who was only dying because of a certain ex-army doctor whose basis for shooting the man had been a)threatening Sherlock and b)not being a very nice man. No, it had been logical that John would not be interested in the cabbie's so called sponsor.

But now.

_Who would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?_ the cabbie's hideously accented voice snarled down a corridor of the Mind Palace.

John Hamish Watson would. The short man with his galaxies and his blood diseases and his metal bits for killing. He would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes.

And something told the detective that the other man wouldn't take kindly to being told the fanbase was growing. **John's P.O.V**

John wanted to say he was surprised. Wanted to say he was shocked, dazed, unable to comprehend was happening.

Instead he felt tired and proved right.

As the first thing Sherlock seemed to consciously do was struggle in a manner not fit for feeling stitches in order to pry himself off the mattress.

Not that this was the _very_ first thing the detective had done once the shorter man had reluctantly handed over the case files.

No, first had been what would be as close to a lead pipe-bumble bee look as Sherlock's elegant features would ever be. It was the second time John had seen the man struggle to fit the pieces together, to find a solution to an impossible puzzle. The first was when the ex-army doctor had forced Sherlock to listen when John had basically said he would want to be the ash preserved with the brunette's should a volcano wipe London out that very second, if the taller man would allow it. Nothing about that folder should have caused the world's only great consulting detective to look so _doubtful_. "What is it Sherlock?"

The sound, not the words themselves, seemed to bring the too-bright too-large grey eyes back into focus on the doctor. John's heart leapt into his throat out of habit and a bit because of the flash of worry he caught in his favourite irises.

"Sherlock," he repeated, more Captain Watson leaking into the command.

"You should've showed me this sooner. Stupid thing to wait for, stitches how boring," the taller man mumbled after quickly looking anywhere but John himself.

"Once again, not getting yourself sent to A/E is not boring," John grumbled in return, though he did have enough sense to wait for further explanation. The case was the second of its kind so the doctor could understand that it was somewhat time sensitive but any case they received was always going to be. Time sensitive had to be ignored for the sake of Sherlock, who John would not allow to suffer as long as he was there to intervene.

There was a long pause, where the detective seemed to be contemplating something carefully. When John realized what was being contemplated was the choice of words, his guard was instantly up. Sherlock may be a fan of getting the last word, god knows that's true, but he didn't usually put active thought into what he said. The man was intelligent without effort and once you factored in that he didn't care how people reacted, it was easy to see why saying the first thing that came to mind had become a habit.

"I…maybe have heard this name before," was the gently admitted terms the brunette ended up offering.

"Which one?"

"Moriarty," it was difficult to ignore the way Sherlock said the name like a softly spoken prayer, like it offered salvation.

"What do you mean, heard it before?," John pressed, having crossed his arms over his chest without noticing that was what he'd done.

"I mean it's come up, my sense of hearing being intact I was aware when someone mentioned it to me previously," the detective hissed back in what was truly a good imitation of his annoyed _this is obvious even for you imbeciles_ voice but John Hamish Watson knew a deflection when he saw one.

"And when was this previous occurrence?," he asked sternly, levelling Sherlock with a look meant to inform him at all experiments in the flat would not be safe until John got answers.

"Shortly after meeting you," was the airy response that grated against the ex-army doctor's nerves.

"How shortly after," honestly, it was like pulling teeth.

"Within twenty four hours," Sherlock told his fingernails, which he was apparently busy inspecting as closely as a crime scene.

_Twenty four hours? All we did the first day was the case with the ca-_

John closed his eyes and felt his hands clench into fists while he busied himself with remembering how lovely he normally thought Sherlock was. How very glad he was that the other man had not died in that alley.

_Didn't die so that I could throttle him properly_ his brain supplied.

"Sherlock."

The name was a warning.

**Sherlock's P.O.V**

_Oh John. Don't look that that, it's like even your lacrimal bone is furious with me. How do you manage it? Stop looking like that. Take that mandible and look at me like I'm nothing but good again._ He attempted to keep his squirming dignified under the harsh gaze of an ex-army doctor.

"Was it the bloody cabby who told you?," John asked in a clipped tone through a clenched jaw.

"He…may have been the source of the data. I was gathering information if you remember," the detective started to defend, being cut off by a rather unnecessary snort of disbelief from the shorter man.

"Trust me Sherlock, I'll never forget how thick you can be trying to prove how clever you are."

"I have already explained this John, I simply had to know what he was saying to convince his victims to kill themselves and playing the game was the only way to do this. I wasn't going to take his pill, good or bad," Sherlock retorted with a sniff, pointedly looking away again.

It wouldn't do for John to know that wasn't…exactly the whole truth.

_I can't be the only one who gets bored. And it was so very boring before you came John. No one else gave me blood diseases and everything was calm. It was hateful. And I didn't know about you or your gun. That thing is an extension of your arm, did you know? Thrilling. I couldn't have known you'd be thrilling and his game was at least interesting. I wouldn't play now, but I wanted very much to play then. I hadn't seen starlight yet. _

"Why didn't you tell me about this Moriarty then, if you were only interested in how he did it?"

"It didn't seem relevant. He was no longer a threat and all I had was a name. Not enough to narrow the field."

_There was a surprising amount of blood, you are a very good shot John. He died quickly but there was still time to hurt him. Who sponsors a serial killer? You would be abusing your lovely zygomatic bones if you frowned at me so often. I'm not an exotic house plant and I'll hurt a dying serial killer if it is the logical thing to do. It didn't seem relevant because I'd only just found out you were thrilling. Stupid of me._

"Sherlock, he killed people. He wanted to kill you. Everything he said would have been relevant."

"Why?" surely John didn't want to know every single word a murderer ever said to him, it would take even Sherlock quite a while to finish such a list.

"Because wanting to kill you matters to me!," John screeched back, apparently failing at keeping his anger at bay.

"It didn't matter to you then, nobody would have been interested at the time," Sherlock replied quietly, yelling being a much rarer thing for him than His John. Which was all fine, the detective was teaching himself to stop flinching so badly each time.

John seemed to soften a bit then and the great brain in Sherlock's skull practically purred with the thought of how it did love when the good doctor looked soft and comforting like the hideous jumpers the same brain tried so desperately to destroy without leaving evidence.

"I need to know these things now Sherlock. I can't…I can't be thinking there are things you aren't telling me that could get you into danger. The alley was bad enough, I don't want to go through that again. I can't even begin to explain how it felt when I thought I might…l-lose you," John stammered out, looking terribly sad and somehow commanding at the same time. The strange flutter in his digestive system flashed again and if Sherlock Holmes was more certain he had a heart it would have been cracking.

_Do not say things like that John. I have the blood disease, not you. I'm dangerous and you like dangerous. You like guns and crime scenes and me so stop looking so improbable this very instant. _

Dangerous is just a game, dying is just losing.

If he thought back on it though, to that fuzzy night in the alley, Sherlock could remember all the things he had almost not ever said. Perhaps he wasn't particularly eager to leave John behind either.

"Yes. Yes, alright John. I promise. I'll… tell you when anyone is threatening me. Only proper threats though, at least an eight. Anything less would just be ridiculous, I'd never tell you anything else."

John smiled that precious _Just-for-me_ smile and Sherlock felt a little less like he was cracking.

"Tell me the rest of it then. What did he say?"

"The man was a serial killer, you know that, he was quick to confess that much. When he was explaining the…thing with the pills, I deduced that it all had something to do with his children. He told me that he had a…sponsor of sorts, for each time he killed."

"Who would sponsor a serial killer?," John questioned in a disbelieving tone, and the detective did his best not look too pleased that John was starting to ask the right questions without being prompted these days.

"Who indeed. He said it was my fan, a fan of Sherlock Holmes," the man himself repeated in a voice replicating the dreadful sounding cabbie's.

"It's a bit creepy when you do that, why would someone who says they're a fan of you want to send a serial killer after you?"

"Well it's not as if I've got a very large fan club John, I sincerely doubt enjoying my work limits the pool to only lovely sane people."

John paused and seemed to consider his words before agreeing with a small tilt of his head.

"So he said it was Moriarty then? This was the man paying for you to take that idiotic pill?"

"The cabbie told me it was a name no one said, I forced him to tell me but that was as far as I got before your bullet made him less inclined to talk," Sherlock told him wryly.

John had the decency to blush the slightest bit.

"What's the plan then? Tell Lestrade you want off the case?"

"Of course not, don't be so obvious John. I need to speak with Mycroft, actually a text should be more than enough, then we're going to go over every detail of this file until we find our next Hallohan.

Sherlock was going to start a research project on safely limiting the amount of oxygen one set of lungs could expel at any given moment.

_What information have you gather on one Moriarty? – SH_

_We've been observing one person of such a name. Runs numerous crime rings. The case you received this morning is not him. – MH_

_Would the death I'm investigating be linked? – SH_

_Brothers. – MH_

_Tedious as always, you could have just said. –SH_

_You could have just called, you know how I hate texting. – MH_

_Trying to increase physical activity wherever possible. All that cake. –SH_

_Rude to ignore people Mycroft. – SH_

"Where are we going?"

"We aren't going anywhere. I need to go observe the body and gather what data hasn't been ruined by the likes of Anderson. You are going to interview Sebastian Moran again. Hop to it John, we haven't all day."

"'Why, exactly, am I doing this?"

"Brothers John, seems I'm not the only one who can't shake them."

**Authors Note: Please let me know what you thought! I know it's mostly plot but I swear the details are important! Another update should be within the week!**


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